And Jumpers Hide His Scars
by Pinlie
Summary: Teen!lock School!fic: Sherlock is the new kid in town, sent to John's school by Mycroft because of the ridiculously low bullying rates. But why are these rates so low? Why is John the only kid in the whole school allowed to wear a jumper over his uniform? And why does he carry a cane even though he can walk perfectly well without it? Review, I reply to all feedback:)
1. Chapter 1

_*****Warnings for:** bleeped out swearing, implied child abuse, implied bullying, and homosexuality in minor characters (just Harry so far)_

_*****Tags:** Teen!lock, School!fic, BAMF!John, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mike Stamford,_ Harry Watson_, Father Watson is a jerk, Mother Watson is dead, Mycroft Holmes, Bullying, Child abuse_

John H. Watson is a brave kid. Anyone who knows him, or who has heard the rumors about him, would be forced to admit that. The things that he has done and the things he does every day, and the complete s*** he puts up with makes that undeniable. He is the shadowed hero of the school, in his own way. And everyone knows what is being done to him. The cuts, bruises, and broken bones he hides are never actually secrets. Everyone knows, even the professors. But no one does anything. They can't. John is the only one who stands up to it, and it's killing him. Slowly.

John came to this school with his sister three years ago to escape an abusive home situation. Or at least, that's how his therapist phrased it. His own wording would have included a few more choice words and the phrase "complete monster of a man" in there somewhere, but, hey.

John grew up taking s*** from his father and listening to excuses from his mother. (Until she died. Then no one even bothered to make excuses anymore and he wasn't sure if he should feel refreshed or devastated. He settled for hollow.) His sister was his only ally, and he did everything he could to protect her. But Harriet Watson was not a force to be contained. She lived for the party most humans call life. She loved alcohol and having fun and partying and beautiful women and being opinionated about everything. She hated restrictions and really, he hated to restrict her.

So one day, when enough finally became infinitely more than enough and he didn't think he'd be able to take another second of his life without braining himself with his father's old army pistol, he got out. He took Harry and two back packs full of all the stuff he could grab at a moment's notice and walked out of the door and just kept walking. Eventually, he ended up bunking with his best mate, Mike Stamford, at his house. Harry slept on the couch and complained loudly until she passed out from exhaustion.

The very next day he woke up and called his father and child services. He put child services on hold while he calmly informed his father that they would not be returning. Then, while the yelling and swearing and threatening began, he took child services off hold and told them everything, all with the background noises of his sister's snores.

Two weeks and one painful hospital visit later, and he and Harry were enrolling at St. Bartholomew's Private Academy for Youth, (and if that wasn't a stuffy name he didn't know what one was). His injuries from the rather uncivil final encounter with his father were nowhere near fully healed yet, but he was mobile and he had a cane to help him get around properly.

He hated that cane. He should be able to walk on his own. He needed to protect Harry, how was he supposed to do that when he couldn't even walk on his own? And she attracted enough attention. She was beautiful, loud, and unceasingly energetic. (Next to her, he felt like an old man. A tired old man.) But he needn't have worried. The first time someone picked a fight with her John beat the guy so badly that he missed a week and a half of school. (Whether the fight was over her sexuality, her drinking, or her behavior, he'd never find out, but then again, that wasn't what mattered.)

Everyone forgot about Harry. John had practically handed the bullies of the school a paintbrush and two tubes of paint, red and white, and asked them to paint a target on his forehead. He thought he had left that life behind, the life of constantly being beaten and afraid. He didn't want this. He just wanted to feel safe. More importantly though, he wanted Harry to feel safe. But that didn't mean he had to suffer in silence.

Back then, no one else knew about John. The bullies all knew him as their new target, but to everyone else he was simply "the new kid." He went to class, made friends, and was very careful about how much skin he showed. He was careful about who was around when he got cornered into a fight. He was careful about fighting back.

Now he isn't. All the bullies in the school know to watch out for John Watson. His leg recovered years ago, but he still walks with a limp and carries a cane. He appears to be a cripple in a dumpy jumper, unable to afford the newer cardigans or sweater vests. But everyone now knows that everything, and everyone, is not what they first appear to be, that jumpers can hide deeper scars than one can imagine and that a cane is a weapon, not a tool for holding oneself up. The bullying level at St. Bart's is at a record low this year; with only one person in the entire school being bullied, it only makes sense. There's never been better numbers for the school in all its centuries of existence.

Actually, it was those numbers that convinced one Mycroft Holmes that it would be the perfect school for his lonely, friendless, little brother, Sherlock.

...

*****A/N:**

_Hi, I go by Pinlie online, and this is my second fan fiction series ever. I decided that I wanted to try to write one of my favorite types of fan fiction, a teen!lock school!fic. But everyone writes one of those, so I gave it a little twist. Have you ever noticed how for some reason, John is always the new kid in these types of stories? I decided to make Sherlock the new character in my version, and then I added in the bullying thing as the major plot line. If you like this fic enough to want it to continue, review please! I rarely continue my stories otherwise. Thanks for taking the time to read this. _


	2. Chapter 2

*****New tags: **_Mummy, John is the only one in the world who can make a good cuppa, Bullies are not smarter than Sherlock Holmes_

*****A/N: **

_Hi guys, thanks for all the amazing feedback I got on chapter 1. I have decided to continue this fic due to your lovely reviews. In this chapter, Sherlock is introduced. Not much plot movement here, but I wanted to input him and his perspective before the story got too far. I find Sherlock harder to write than John, so if it's awful I apologize. If you have any suggestions/comments on how to improve, I welcome them. Oh, and since Sherlock is often described as thinking of a multitude of things at once, with his fast-paced brain and all, I included parallel/simultaneous thoughts he has in parenthesis. Hope it's not too confusing or unnatural. (feedback appreciated)_

Sherlock Holmes was excited to start at his new school.

That's not something you heard everyday. Actually, unless you shared his rather unique name and loved being the new kid (each equally rare for a young man of his age) it was a complete first. But he couldn't deny the truth, however improbable it was.

When Mycroft had told him that he had found a school with a zero-bullying policy that had been successfully enforced, he had simply laughed. (yeah right) Then he noticed that Mycroft was serious and became intrigued. Mycroft _was _intelligent (as loathe as he was to admit it) and knowing him he must have checked it out. So there had to be _some_ legitimacy to the claim... As if it was even possible! Every school had its bullies. If you said otherwise you were in denial, unobservant, or you were a bully/being bullied. This was a fact.

He couldn't wait to rip the wool from everyone's eyes. The bullies obviously had to be at least a bit clever to be able to hide their crimes for so long- almost two whole years! And from Mycroft too! (But not more clever than him. They derived fun from harming other human beings after all, they couldn't be too smart.) This might actually challenge him for a bit. And he needed a challenge- his brain was decaying from lack of use. He was so bored; everything around him was dull. But this ... This could be promising. Interesting even.

Sherlock already had five or six theories as to what was going on, each more unlikely than the last. He needed data. He needed to go to the school. (He couldn't believe he was even thinking that thought. If someone had told him that he'd be eager to start at a new high school last year, he would have dismissed them as disillusioned at the least. Probably closer to delusional to be more accurate. Even though he rarely (if ever) admitted to even having feelings he still hated the tiresome process of everyone in the school learning to outcast and hate him. He wished he could just make an announcement and get it over with up front.) It was all so repetitive.

It would be one week until he officially started at Bart's (the school's pet nickname made a fool out of its purposefully intimidating full title.) that meant he'd be starting a month later than everyone else. (Not that this mattered, in fact, it fit perfectly in to his half-formed plan.)

He would spend today finalizing his plans (as much as he could with incomplete data), researching the school, and finishing up some last minute experiments. Oh, and he wasn't to forget to pack. Mummy would be terribly disappointed if he forgot _again_. And Mycroft would be all insufferable and buy him a whole new wardrobe, even though he knew Sherlock would never wear it. (He wasnt stupid, he knew Mycroft bugged all of his presents.) The imbecile.

With that sorted, he put down his violin and got down to work. (How long did it take for hydrochloric acid to eat through a variety of household objects? He's sure the information will be useful sometime.)

(Hmm, he was craving a good cuppa. Too bad the staff could never seem to get it quite right here. (what was missing- possible future experiment?))


	3. Chapter 3

*****New tags:** _Anderson__, __Gregory Lestrade__, __Sally Donovan__,_

John had thought he was done helping the new kids get adjusted. Their first week he was on high alert, making sure Anderson and his lot left them alone, that they didn't become his new victims. As long as a new kid didn't aggravate any of them, Anderson generally had his boys leave them alone. They knew better than to incite his anger without reason. However, sometimes a new kid just wasn't fitting in properly. Sometimes they did something that was just plain _stupid_, like hitting on Anderson's girlfriend Sally, and he had to jump in. Suddenly, the new kid would have a new best friend, one completely unremarkable John Watson. (Except for his cane, what was that about?) And, oh, how nice, John would introduce them to other people in their class. They'd all hang out together, and the new kid felt like they were finally fitting in. In the end, when they started hanging out more and more with these "other people" and less and less with John, they'd begin to hear the rumors about him. And then suddenly they wouldn't see John at all, except maybe in passing in the halls, in line for lunch, or hunched over a text book in the back of class.

But it had been an entire month since school had begun, and John was sure that everyone was fitting in properly, and that if Anderson and his crew were doing anything untoward, it wasn't at school. So he had _thought_ that he was done. That he could sit back and relax for a little bit, maybe even concentrate on his studies for a while. That is, until his mate Greg was sent down to the office for fooling around in class and overheard the secretary speaking to a man in a suit about the possibility of his younger brother entering the school. And boy, Greg had laughed as he told him, if the man wasn't loaded, he was made of money because he practically oozed wealth.

And what was someone so rich and upper class doing in their little school? They wouldn't fit in at all! John sighed. He knew where this was going. When, as expected, his fourth period professor asked if anyone was willing to walk a new student around tomorrow for a tour of the school, John quickly volunteered. His professor gave him a look- this teacher wasn't an idiot. He knew the rumors. But he told John to meet the new kid, Sherlock Holmes anyways. (And he had a weird name too? Were his parents trying to get him bullied, or was the world just out to make life difficult for John?) He was to be at the office after first period to show him around. John sighed. "_Here I go again_," he thought wearily.

**A/N:**

_Next chapter they meet! This is just a sort of filler to get everything ready for the big meeting. (Sorry for the lack of plot movement here.) I can't thank everyone who has read, followed, or reviewed this story enough. I hope I can make it worthy of your time. Please continue to give me feedback on what I can improve, what you like, and whether or not you think I should keep writing this. Thanks again!_


	4. Chapter 4

**New tags:** _John and Sherlock meet, Mycroft is lazy, So what else is new?_

Sherlock didn't sleep that night. His thoughts were too loud, his brain too busy. (He refused to call it excitement. Sherlock Holmes didn't do emotions. It just wasn't his style.) But this wouldn't pose a problem; he was used to more than the occasional all-nighter.

Today though, today deserved his full mental attention. He felt anticipation burn through his veins as he readied himself. Mycroft's car would be here to pick him up at a quarter after seven. He had a half hour to prepare. After a quick shower, Sherlock ran through his plans once more mentally, then selected a purple silk shirt and some trousers from his closet and got dressed. His curls were, as ever, untamable, so he let them be. His shoes were expensive black leather, soft and easy to run in. All set then, now he just had to wait.

Mycroft didn't leave him waiting long. Five minutes later a sleek black car pulled up, with Mycroft in the driver's seat. Sherlock slid in next to him and they pulled away, crunching down the gravel of the Holmes Manor's long driveway. Sherlock imagined that in the years to come, Mycroft would hire his own driver, and a P.A. Mycroft was much too lazy to continue doing so many of life's trivialities himself, and soon he'd give up his charade of powerlessness and claim some of the benefits. These thoughts, and many others whirred through Sherlock's head as they drove through the painfully slow London morning rush traffic and toward the school. Nearly an hour later, they arrived.

The school wasn't a very impressive sight, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary (on the outside.) It was a plain white stone building, several stories high but not enormously wide. He stepped out of the car, noting and avoiding the mud puddle in the street as he rounded the car. Mycroft gestured for him to follow and together they made their way into the school and (presumably) toward the office. The office was apparently on the second floor and Sherlock barely managed to hide his smirk At Mycroft's obvious distaste for the set of stairs they were forced to climb. (Yep, definitely giving up that charade soon. It was only a matter of time now.)

Sherlock was just reigning in full control of his facial muscles when they rounded the last corner before the office. And then he was met with his first sight of student life. A boy, his age or maybe up to a year older, in an old jumper that wasn't quite regulation and ironed trousers that definitely were, was standing, rigidly upright, outside the office with a (completely unnecessary) cane in his hands. He was twirling it between his fingers, almost nervously, but his hands were completely steady and his gaze never wavered from where it was fixed on the opposite wall. He looked lost in thought. As Sherlock approached the boy jerked with a start and spun to face them, his stance almost as if he were readying for a fight. (And hmm, that was interesting. Wasn't this the no-bullying school?) But then the boy quickly relaxed and as he took a step forward, (not leaning on the cane at all now, why did he have it?), Sherlock took in all the little details he hadn't noticed from afar.

The boy's hair was dusty blonde and his eyes were a deep, infinite blue that seemed to suck you in. He was injured in several places (ribs, right arm, and an old injury in his left leg) but trying to hide it. He was there on a full scholarship but was struggling to pay for basic necessities, (probably helping a less qualified sibling through school.) And now he was smiling, and saying something and, oh, he should probably be paying attention to that.

"Er, excuse me but you wouldn't happen to be Mr. Holmes, would you?"

"Call me Sherlock. Who are you? No wait, don't tell me- the student guide?"

Mycroft was still hovering in the background, looking bored, so without giving the boy a chance to reply he added, "You can go now Mycroft. He's my guide. I shall text you when I'm through here."

"I'll send a car then. Do behave yourself Sherlock; I'll leave as soon as I'm done in the office."

And with that he left, leaving the two alone. The boy visibly collected himself before stretching out a hand to shake.

"I'm John Watson, twelfth year here. How'd you know I was your guide?"

Sherlock looked disdainfully at the proffered hand, but shook it briefly before replying. He took a deep breath...

**A/****N:**

_Sorry! I'm not trying to torture you, I swear! I'll update as soon as possible. (Right now, I've been updating at least once a day.) Please R&R, I appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you!_

_Also, sorry if this looks weirdly formatted, I had to upload thischapter on my mom's iPhone._


	5. Chapter 5

**New tags: **_Sherlock's deductions,_ _yep that's all for now_

**A/N: **

_Hey guys, I'd like to just make a quick mention of something that's happened in my own life. (If you don't care, don't read.) I was in the counseling office at school for college aps, and I happened to walk in on a child abuse talk group. It was the day after I posted chapter one of this story, and it really had a big impact. One of the kids in this group was a neighbor of mine, someone I'd grown up with, and I had no idea that this had been going on. I didn't disrupt them, and as I waited for my turn with the counselor, I overheard a bit of what they said. All of them were crying, but they were holding hands and smiling through their tears. It was probably one of the single most devastating and emotionally uplifting things I've ever experienced at the same time. I'd like to dedicate this story to these girls, and to any and all people who have suffered from child abuse and/or bullying. You are in my prayers, and I wish you help and hope. _

…

Sherlock looked disdainfully at the proffered hand, but shook it briefly before replying. He took a deep breath…

"Obvious. You were standing outside the office, and waiting for something- no, someone, who? Not to be called inside or you would be facing the office, looking in. And you approached us, two total strangers. I don't go here, so you have no reason to approach me- unless you were waiting for me. Why? You're the student guide. And you confirmed it just now."

John sucked in a gasp before it could escape him and let it out, slowly, noisily. "That…" he began. "_Is __**definitely**__ going to stand out,_" he finished in his head. Aloud though, he voiced the other thought that had crossed his mind, "…was amazing."

Sherlock looked briefly startled. "Really?"

John nodded vigorously. "Of course. It was… extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." Internally he thought, _"What else would it be? That's not something normal people just come up with on the spot. Oh god, he's not normal at all is he... this is going to be so much work… but then, why am I getting excited_?"

He was snapped back out of his thoughts when Sherlock coughed obnoxiously. "Don't we have a school to be touring then?" he said, sounding like the epitome of arrogance and poshness.

John sighed. This was going to be an absolute _nightmare_, and he was going to be getting the bad end of it, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to hate or blame this strange new kid, this Sherlock Holmes. He tried not to wince at the thought of getting into another big fight so soon after the last one, (something he was still recovering from), but resigned himself to his choices with a philosophical shrug. He had made his (metaphorical and physical) bed, and he wouldn't try to run from any monsters hiding underneath it. He would face up and sleep in it, no matter how many nightmares it brought him.

So with a gesture toward the corridor behind himself, he shepherded Sherlock away from the office and toward the main classrooms. Sherlock allowed himself to be led for a few seconds, but as soon as he got around a corner, all pretenses were dropped. Without any premise whatsoever, he let loose a violent torrent of words and suddenly John was struggling to keep up.

"I heard this school has a no-bullying policy that's being totally enforced. As in, there are no bullies or bullying in this school. I know that isn't possible, and I can tell when people are lying, so tell me the truth: what's really going on here?"

John stopped walking and turned to look (up) at him, his jaw twitching and his hands as steady as a surgeons'. "What would make you think I'd know anything about that?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Well for one, you go here, so you'd clearly know more than me. And you're a student guide, so you've been going here for a while, I'd guess three years by the state of that jumper. Not to mention the fighter-like stance you took on when you were surprised. You're used to fighting, but haven't had any formal training, so that rules out club activities. You've been in fights, and you're on guard while at school, so you don't feel safe here. Therefore, Q.E.D., you know something about the bullying going on here. Either you're a bully yourself, or, more likely, a victim."

John stared at him in something approaching shock. Or was it awe? He couldn't tell anymore. Maybe there wasn't a difference between the two in the first place. He wanted to be angry with him for his forceful, unmerciful words (especially the bit about him maybe being a bully) but really, it was only the truth (or Sherlock's best guess at the truth.) And he'd sworn he wouldn't hide from the truth. Honestly, it was refreshing to have someone realize that this place wasn't all that it said it was. New people always came in thinking that the school was some sort of utopia or something. It wasn't, and he hated watching them figure out the truth. Utopia? Ha. Try again. His school was a dystopia if it was anything.

So he didn't deny Sherlock's claims. He didn't try to tell him that he was wrong or misled. He simply nodded.

"Yes. I know something. And I'm certainly not a bully, but I think you've already discerned that bit. (Although nor am I a victim.) But I'm not going to tell you what's going on. It'll get you into more trouble than you need, and my goal is to accomplish pretty much the opposite of that. People here can get nasty, and cruel."

He gave Sherlock a quick once over, sighing softly. "And you wouldn't stand a chance against them. Trust me. I know that I don't know you very well, or at all honestly, but you seem like an intelligent and confident (if a bit rude) person. I like you. And I don't want that for you. So what you're going to do, yeah, you, is you're going to shut up and let me give you a tour of this school. And then you're going to come to class next Monday and you're going to do your best to fit in because you don't want any trouble. 'Cause you don't want the kind of trouble you'll get here. I don't know what posh, high-end school you're from, but this isn't it. This school… it's a whole new level of h***, if you get on the wrong side of the wrong people. Like you said, I'd know."

And when John turned around promptly after his little speech to begin describing each class and hall they passed, Sherlock could only gape at his back for a few precious seconds. Then he pulled himself together and rushed after him, his mind racing and heart pumping with the excitement of a new mystery. This was a _dream_ come true, he could hardly contain a leap or a shout of pure joy as he followed in the steps of his newest acquaintance, John Watson: an enigma with a cane.

...

**A/N:**

_To everyone who gave me a lovely review, you should know that they mean more to me than you'll ever know! Please continue to encourage and criticize me, it's what keeps me writing. Thanks to everyone who has kept reading, I hope I don't let you all down_


	6. Chapter 6

**New tags:**_ dundundun, suspense, sort of cliffhanger_

The rest of their tour passed without incident. Sherlock behaved himself and allowed John to lead him around the school, keeping his sarcastic monologue of "Dull" and "Obvious" mostly to himself at first. But when he accidently let the words slip out as John pointed out the location of the toilets, (unnecessary as they were already clearly labeled with a sign) and John's only reaction was to laugh and agree that, yes, it was a bit redundant, he allowed himself to loosen up a bit. Soon, they were laughing over the repetitiveness of the floor plans and the tedious lack of creativity of the school's architects, huffing a little bit from climbing flight after flight of stairs while doing so.

In all honesty, they had fun. John couldn't remember the last time he'd simply hung out with someone and enjoyed himself, (not that Sherlock could either.) This new kid was unlike any one he'd ever met before; he was so quick-witted and rude and unrepentant, so intelligent and funny in a quirky way, sometimes without even meaning to be so. John found himself fascinated by Sherlock's deductions of the building and students that were wandering the hallways during class time.

On his part, the amount of enjoyment Sherlock was deriving from the encounter can be easily summed up by the fact that he was restraining himself from interrogating John just to enjoy his company. Originally, the plan was to lull him into a false sense of relaxation and then question him mercilessly, but now he forced himself to put his curiosity aside for the moment. For these moments of, yes, as much as it surprised him, happiness, as he impressed John with his deductions and found himself intrigued with the quiet and selfless way he was praised, when, really, it was a rarity for someone to even be able to keep up with his leaps of logic.

They both found themselves going slower and slower as they made their way closer and closer to the end of possible areas they could "tour." Neither really wanted their time together to be over. It was weird- they both were not the type to make friends quickly or easily. They were too wary, too self-contained. Sherlock was too scared of being hurt, and John feared getting others hurt by getting them involved with him. Somehow, both of those unspoken rules were forgotten after Sherlock's deduction and John's first declaration of "amazing."

So when it came time to part, they did so reluctantly. John, back to his life: class and fear and protecting. Sherlock to his: boredom and loneliness and ingenuity. It'd be a whole week until they saw each other again, and things would be a bit different then, (for one of them at least.)

The week passed slowly, too slowly for Sherlock. He became more and more impatient, filling to the brim and then overflowing with energy with no real outlet. He regretted not question John now, the curiosity, the need to know, it was eating at him relentlessly. He calculated and counted down the hours, minutes, even seconds until school. He even asked Mycroft if he could start earlier, (and got the satisfaction of seeing the shock on his face, even when his brother rejected the idea outright, asking if he needed to see the family physician- he didn't.)

So he blew up an irregular amount of things, drove the house staff half past insanity, (to the point where a therapist and a lawsuit had been required), and waited.

Meanwhile, John went to his classes, kept his head held high and his body out of trouble, and managed to have a decent week for once. It was unusual, but so was this feeling of excitement he kept getting, every time he thought about the new kid joining their school (only a week away, now three days, now two!)

It all changed though, the night before Sherlock was due to start school, with one phone call. Then everything else was forgotten, everything but Harry, and making sure Harry was safe. (And _ohgodohgodohgod_ he wasn't prepared for this, shouldn't he be getting more of a warning, a heads up? Something?)But life wasn't like that, wasn't fair like that at all, and if he'd been paying more attention, if he'd been _thinking_, he would've realized. (But he didn't, and now it was about to come back to haunt him. And he was terrified.)

**A/N:**

_I'd just like to take this time to say that this story is not at all based off my own experiences with my family. My family is a group of the most amazing people I have ever met, EVER, and would never and have never been abusive in any way, shape, or form. This is purely from my imagination and from having friends that have had such experiences, plus watching too many crime shows. My dad, in particular, is the most gentle and loving man I've met and also an architect (so that comment in this chapter about the lack of creativity of architects is not an opinion I have, simply one that fit the story and its characters, no offense meant to anyone, I love architects and architecture.) I could rant about how much I love them for pages and pages but I'll stop now and spare you the gushing. Suffice to say, I love my family, and that is all._

_On another note, thanks again for the review and to everyone who is still reading this! (Sorry if I sound like a broken record repeating this every chapter, but I find it necessary to say.) Much love to you:)_


	7. Chapter 7

**New tags:** _Sherlock is definitely a Mummy's boy, Sherlock is in love with mysteries, Mycroft fails at complimenting, it is about to go down_

Sherlock had never been more excited for school in his life. Mummy made him try to sleep for a few hours (pointless and hopeless) but his brain was way too wired for that. He was a jittery mess, waiting for Mycroft's car and running over mental checklists, feeling a slight sense of déjà vu at the whole situation. When Mycroft finally arrived, he was pacing fiercely back and force in the entryway, scaring away all the servants that tried to approach him with breakfast with scathing remarks and running his hand through his curls restlessly so that they stuck up funnily.

Mycroft was much too posh to honk his horn but much too lazy to get out and find his brother, so he'd sent a servant to wait for the car. When the servant returned Sherlock didn't even give him a chance to speak; he simply brushed by him and out the door, into the waiting car.

"The uniform suits you," Mycroft commented dryly as Sherlock slammed the door a little harder than necessary and settled low in his seat.

"Don't try to make small talk with me. You know I hate it Mycroft, and pettiness suits you less than this uniform does me." Sherlock was in no mood for sarcasm or snipping from his brother today. (What he didn't realize was that the comment had been more on the genuine side than he'd thought, but Mycroft was used to his brother's insecurities by now, and didn't comment.)

They drove the rest of the way in silence, with Sherlock staring blankly at the traffic out his window, thinking, leaving Mycroft putting just enough of his intellect and attention behind driving as to prevent an accident; the rest of his resources going to the latest political scandal and the problem of finding a good P.A. When they arrived, Sherlock bolted out of the car so fast Mycroft barely had time to give his "good day" speech, (and how he managed it anyways, Sherlock was sure he'd never figure out.)

Sherlock joined the flow of students waiting around the outside of the building, searching and observing. It took him less than a minute to notice the whispers, the prolonged stares, and the quickly ducking heads. Something was going on here. He grinned internally, outwardly presenting his best straight face. (It wasn't easy, being emotionless, but Mummy assured him that he was getting better at it all the time.) The game was on, a mystery was afoot, and he was more than ready for it.

Now if only he could blend in more, get close enough to hear what was being said by the other students… A lot of the stares and whispers seemed to be about him, a lot, but not all. (Interesting, what else could they be about?) Just as he reached the door of the school, a bus pulled up to the curb. The whispers intensified until they weren't quite whispers anymore, and the crowd all seemed to surge forwards. Sherlock stopped to observe- he'd been forgotten in this moment, and took the opportunity to mix in with a group of girls standing by the entrance.

The bus doors hissed, and then opened. A few people hurried off of it, but none of them were what the fuss was about._ "What was going on, what was the big deal?!"_ Sherlock had to know. And he didn't have to wonder for long- Suddenly a hush spread over the crowd as a girl stepped off of the bus and rushed forward, dressed in a girl's regulation white shirt, grey jacket, and black shoes. What really got his attention though was that she was also wearing the men's trousers (grey), men's shoes (black), and a men's beret (also black). Her blonde hair was pixie-cut short, her lips an ostentatious red, and her blue eyes heavily shadowed black. She was… standing out. A lot.

So much so that when the next person stepped off, Sherlock almost didn't register it at first. But while the girl, in all of her make-up (against school policy) and male clothing (also not allowed) was forced to wade through the crowd like everyone else, the person who got off (slowly, limping) after her got an entirely different treatment. The crowd parted for him. It split in two, allowing him to pass without contest. And it was John, (_JOHN)_, how hadn't he realized that right away? The girl didn't get very far through the shifting crowd before she stopped and waited for him, looking miffed, and they exchanged a few terse words before he led the way up the steps to the school, the crowd still reenacting the red sea to let him pass.

Sherlock stepped out from behind the group of girls and approached, throwing caution to the wind.

"Hey John," he greeted with a nod. The assembled crowd immediately lit up once more with whisper-voices. "_Really, what the h*** was happening in this school? And why did the unassuming John seem to be the center of it all?"_ Sherlock couldn't wait to find out.

"Sherlock..." John looked dazed, and now that he was closer, pretty terrible. Something had happened, though what it was he wasn't sure.

**A/N: **

_Next chapter expect some action, Sherlock meets bullies, John has some feels, stuff happening. Thanks for reads and reviews, keep 'em coming!_


	8. Chapter 8

*****Beware spoilers in the tags! You have been warned.**

*****New tags:** _Sherlock meets the bullies__, __And gives them a piece of his mind__, __Una Stubbs-Hudson__, __Mrs. Hudson's daughter__, __Mrs. Hudson is a professor and most certainly not your housekeeper dear__, __John is a force to be reckoned with__, __Sherlock apparently likes reckoning__,_

___***UPDATE: This chapter is still in rough, unedited form. However, many of you commented that the dialogue was a bit hard to follow this chapter. I have always had a hard time writing dialogue fluidly while still making it clear who is speaking, so I appreciate the feedback. I've tried to edit and fix it up a bit, please tell me if you think it's helped or if you're still confused. Thanks!_

"Sherlock…" John was feeling dazed; he was completely off kilter from the news of the previous night. (News? It felt more like a prophecy of doom, but he thought that he was probably just being dramatic. Probably. He'd never relied more heavily on his cane until now.) All he knew for certain was that he wanted to keep Harry as close to him as he possibly could for as much of the time as he could. He wouldn't let her become endangered again, not because of Him. (Not because of anyone.)

But he'd zoned out, (bad mistake, somehow Harry'd slipped out of his line of sight and he spent a few panicked seconds before he located her with her latest girlfriend, Una), and Sherlock was giving him a look that could almost be construed as worried, (if Sherlock hadn't informed him of his lack of emotions the previous week, he would've assumed it was.) He realized that he'd missed something that Sherlock had said. Cringing, he looked up at him, smiling weakly, apologetically.

"Sorry, you lost me for a bit there. What was that?" John said, trying to withstand Sherlock's piercing glare, his intelligence barely contained behind the windows to the soul that we usually just call eyes, eyes that glinted with perception.

"Something's happened," Sherlock declared. "What is it?" John sort of wanted to applaud for him for his deduction; (he also sort of wanted to cry, but that wasn't happening either), the kid was so bloody brilliant_ all_ of the time. How could he stand it?

"How could you _possibly_ know about that?" John wasn't sure he wanted to know. Sherlock smirked, (and he did that an awful lot, John was beginning to realize, much more than he smiled.)

"It was quite obvious, actually. Besides your evident distractedness and the state of your clothes and hair, (somehow worse than before, a feat, even for you), your eyes told me all I needed to know."

"My eyes?" John decided to play along, fishing for some time to waste as the doors were opened and they were allowed into the school. There was only fifteen minutes until class began and he had his first hour three flights above Sherlock's.

"Yes, do keep up I hate repeating myself. Your eyes are shadowed from lack of sleep, probably due to nightmares, some sort of traumatic memory, I'd assume. But you've only recently started having the nightmares again, because last night was the first night you've gone without sleep."

He pulled his cane up to catch Sherlock, helping him regain his balance when John came to a full stop in the middle of the crowded hallway and wheeled on him, nearly causing their collision as Sherlock stepped forward and then tried to stop too quickly. After pausing for a second to make sure Sherlock had regained his balance, he had to ask.

"The nightmares. Explain. Now." And Sherlock's grin was like a Cheshire cat, too knowing and manipulative to be thought honest.

"Not until you tell me what's happened," he retorted, looking smugly triumphant. John sighed. It wasn't like it'd be a secret for long, not with Harriet Watson as his sister. She'd be telling Una because she never hid things from her if she could help it, (except her drinking habits), and Una was a notorious gossip, after her mother, Mrs. Hudson, the English professor.

"Alright, fine, I'll tell but don't go spreading this around. I don't need the extra attention," John told him, thinking of the dramatics of the bus crowd. "Really, really don't." Sherlock just gave him a look.

"That was the furthest thing from my mind. Besides, who'd I tell? I'm new here, and you've met me, how many friends do you think I'm likely to make?" John smiled.

"Well, you'd be surprised. There're actually quite a few people of the decent sort around here, if you care to get to know them. But anyways, I said I'd tell you. Come with me to the cloakroom, we can talk there. It's a bit more private, a better place for spilling secrets than in the middle of a crowded hallway."

"Lead the way. Will you be okay letting her out of sight? Your sister, I mean."

"I don't even know why I'm still amazed every time you do that. But yeah, you're right, that's my sister Harry, short for Harriet. She's a year older than me. And we're in the school now, she should be okay." John cast one last look her way as she and Una wandered out of sight before shaking it off and making his way determinedly toward the twelfth year's cloakroom.

"You aren't denying worrying about her… _fascinating_." Sherlock practically hissed the words. John simply shook his head.

"There's no point. I haven't ever lied to you Sherlock. I've sometimes concealed some things, because they were personal and I don't know you well enough to tell you them. But I haven't ever lied. You're too clever to lie to." They were almost there and John took a deep breath, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Here we are. I'm not going to skate around this; I've always been a bit blunt myself."

"You are rather straightforward for someone so interesting," Sherlock agreed.

"Huh. Thanks, Sherlock. I think… Anyways, to say it plainly, my dad, well, he's just been released from jail on parole. Care to guess my relationship with him?" Sherlock inclined his head slightly.

"I'd already deduced that you aren't close to him, nor do you live with him but jail- oh. He was abusive?" Sherlock said it more as a statement than a question.

"No _was _about it. Unless he underwent some sort of mad personality transplant while in jail, he's still the same cruel bastard as when he got in." Sherlock winced in sympathy.

"I… see. So where do you live? Not at an institution, but not with family either. Mother's deceased then. Foster care?"

"Yeah. That's how I ended up at this school; we're living with one of the professors, Mrs. Hudson," and going by John's fond smile at the mere mention of the woman, this was a big improvement on previous affairs.

"Oh," Sherlock said, a bit at a loss for words. He'd never met a foster kid before, and he'd lived his whole life privileged and well-provided for. It felt a bit awkward, conveying his sympathy,especially when he'd never even try normally. But John was trusting him, a rare enough occurence, and one that felt surprisingly good. He was willing to make some effort for John; the teen had given him a lot in their short acquaintance already. (If he only knew how.)

Just as he was about to attempt to make some vaguely sympathetic comment and hope for the best, a group of five rambunctious and obnoxiously noisy teens burst into the previously empty-except-for-them cloakroom, ruining the mood. John immediately stiffened, his stance becoming fight-ready, his body automatically placing itself in front of Sherlock, shielding him from the threat.

"Sally, Anderson," he grudgingly acknowledged, ignoring the others in favor of speaking to a ratty teen with an unattractive spread of stubble and the curly haired black girl hanging onto him like a limpet. "What do you guys want now? I'm hardly in the mood for your idiocy."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at this; it was something he himself would say, yet it was John saying it.

"What are you smiling at, freak?" The girl, Sally, had a voice that cut like a knife, slicing deep. He struggled to maintain his facade, his face hardening like marble. John placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head slightly in warning. He held his cane like a weapon, spinning it casually in the other hand.

"Anderson, you know how this goes. You don't touch new kids without getting through me first," he was pretty much growling out the words, his voice low and intimidating. Anderson balked at first, but then seemed to realize that he had the advantage of numbers. A look of pure, insufferable smugness crossed his face and Sherlock realized all at once that he _hated_ this guy. Absolutely loathed him, and he barely knew him. (How strange.)

"John, you may be tough, but even you can't take down all four of us at once," Anderson sneered, making Sally frown.

"You mean all five," she shot back.

"Huh?"

"There are five of us. Did you forget to count yourself?" she questioned.

"No, don't be stupid, you're obviously not fighting. You're a girl." Anderson's sexism only assured Sherlock that his hatred was well-founded. Sally looked unhappy, but didn't say anymore. John, however, wasn't finished.

"Anderson, you'll leave Sherlock out of this or you'll regret it. I may be out numbered, but I can still cause you a lot of pain. You know I won't hesitate. You know I won't stop until I can't move. You really think you'll get out of this unscathed?" Anderson seemed to consider John's speech for a moment. A moment too long, unfortunately, because at that exact point in time, Sherlock's patience (never big, but especially thin after a week of waiting) ran out.

"Don't bother John; he clearly doesn't have enough competence to figure even that out." Anderson blinked, then blinked again.

"_Excuse_ me?!"

"If you insist, although you hardly deserve it. Only decent people deserve common courtesies, and you're hardly decent are you, Anderson, what with your bullying and your cheating on Sally every other day. You're disgusting."

"WHAT?! How dare you!" Anderson squeaked, flustered. Sally pulled away from him, looking agitated.

"I swear, Sal, it's not true, he's lying, it's a trick to get us to doubt each other!"

"Of course it's true, just look at your neck! Those love bites are nowhere near the size nor shape of Sally's mouth. Vulgar, anyways, to show your neck with those _things_ on your skin. Ever heard of a scarf? And also notice the perfume, it's definitely not one of Sally's, she doesn't buy expensive perfumes, so also the other woman's. I'd say, an older lady, maybe in her mid-twenties? That's a rather large age gap, don't you think? What would that pampering father of yours say, if he knew his perfect little son was a bully and an unfaithful idiot who torments new kids and can't even stay honest about his relationships. You're even using these other boys, these so called "friends," to appear more intimidating. Dear me-"

And that was when Anderson's fist connected with Sherlock's cheekbone, knocking him backwards onto the ground where he stayed, in a slight shock, for a few precious seconds as the scene before him rapidly unfolded.

It all happened so quickly, one minute Sherlock was speaking, then he was on the floor and John was tackling Anderson. The other kids hesitated to join in, their minds still on what Sherlock had said about Anderson using them. Sally had already slipped away, her eyes filled with tears. That moment's hesitation gave John just what he needed; he was in his element, no one could stop him now even if they tried. He slammed Anderson to the ground with enough force to rattle the coats on their hangers, held his cane against his throat to restrain him, and punched him, hard, in the gut. Once, twice, three times. Then, seeing that Anderson wasn't going anywhere, he rounded on the three other boys.

"Get out of here," he snarled, pointing his cane at them like a sword. They instantly complied.

Sherlock's first lesson at his new school was that John could be plenty scary when he wanted to be, even in his jumper and while carrying a cane. Mess with John Watson, and you regretted it. That was lesson two. (Sherlock had always been a fast learner.)

*****A/N:**

_Here's an extra long chapter just for you amazing people who have been asking for it. Sorry for all the cliffies, and for the slowness updating tonight (I wasat a 50th wedding aniversary dinner at my fav Italian resturant for my grandparents.) I love you all for sticking with me despite this. Keep reading and reviewing and I'll keep up the chapter posting. Next chapter may or may not include a trip to Sherlock's house, the first mentions of Moriarty, and an official meeting of Mrs. Hudson and Mummy Holmes. Teasers FTW:P_


	9. Chapter 9

*****A/N:**

_Sorry for the delay in chapter uploads, I had a very busy week. Homecoming and falling ill kind of slowed me down, but I'm back now. Hopefully all my readers haven't forgotten about me:( Please show your continued support via reviews, you guys know I love hearing from you:) (or don't, I can't force you:P) Next chapter is a John-perspective for those of you who've been missing that._

*****New tags:** _mentions of Moriarty, ASiP references,_

Sherlock was never one to be easily impressed. In fact, he almost never found anything to be particularly challenging to his intellect, at least not for long anyways. But as the days passed, and one week became two, and then three, he still couldn't figure out the puzzle that was John Watson. Whenever he thought he'd quantified the teen's behavioral and speech patterns, John would do something and Sherlock would have to rethink it all over again. John wasn't ever to be underestimated, he'd learned quickly. Many people did, because of how he looked and acted sometimes. But it was a fool's mistake and Sherlock Holmes was no fool. There were layers upon layers behind his simple, weary, crippled appearance. John was never boring; it was impressive. It was interesting. In fact, it was even…_ fun_.

Another couple of weeks passed, and so did the first half quarter mark. Then Sherlock realized something- John Watson might be considered his _friend_. He didn't have friends; no one had ever been interesting enough for him to care and no one had ever been caring enough to be interested. That was just a fact. But John- he was both interesting and, miraculously, interested. (And definitely caring.) Ever since Sally Donovan's little nickname for him had stuck, no one in the school had been particularly eager to befriend him (The Freak.) But somehow, without him noticing, John had. John had snuck up on him, somehow rooting himself deep in Sherlock's life and into his (extremely well-guarded) heart. The man was some kind of ninja to make it past all the barriers Sherlock had set up without any alarms going off; normally the protection of his heart was much better at doing its job. But maybe he didn't realize the breech because his heart didn't need the protecting- not from John. John wouldn't hurt him.

All in all, life was going pretty well at this new school. He had a mystery to occupy his intellect with, his first friend, and a school full of people who didn't quite hate him yet. (They were wary, sure, and they whispered behind his back, but no one said anything to his face. No one outwardly bullied him. No one dared try.) It was nothing short of amazing, he decided. Mycroft was almost right- there was no bullying here. Not when you were friends with John Watson.

They talked constantly in between classes, ate lunch together, and whenever they had them together, sat next to each other in class. But they never hung out after school and it was never a big deal until Sherlock went to the coatroom by himself one day, (John was going to the bathroom and promised to meet him at the library after second hour.) Sherlock had forgotten his student ID in his coat pocket. He needed it to get into the library, so he went back to retrieve it. That's when he saw it. A box, unassuming brown cardboard and packaging tape was sitting in his cubby on top of his scarf. Most likely it was a simple case of wrong-cubby, but he might as well check.. Huh. That was interesting. It had his name, stenciled in black sharpie, plainly on the top flap. Hmm. He checked his phone clock- noted that he would have five minutes until John would be in the library, and pulled a small pocket knife from his other coat pocket, copping the ID and slipping it into his bag and slitting open the box all in one smooth movement. Nestled in the bottom was- an iPhone? (With a pink case, so maybe an accident after all?)

Turning it over in his hands, he catalogued his initial observations- brand new, wiped clean of fingerprints, handled with latex gloves, standard model, case bought at a cheap street vendor. He then unlocked the screen with a single swipe and stopped, staring at what popped up. The photo app was open and there were hundreds of photos staring back at him. All of him. Sometimes with John, other times by himself in class or wandering the halls. All during school or on school property, so nowhere that Mycroft's cameras would cover. (He'd promised to leave Sherlock alone while at school, as long as he remained unharmed. Mycroft would be furious to know that someone else had the audacity to try to survey a Holmes. If [when] he ever found out, that was.)

There was one other app open, the Notes app. Sherlock tapped it apprehensively.

**Notes (1)**

**Hi Sherly**

He clicked on the note title, notions of stalkers and psychopaths already flying around in his brain.

**Hi Sherly **

**I see you're enjoying my school. Johnny boy is doing such an awfully good job playing guard dog, don't you think? He's such a good pet. No one even notices what's happening behind the scenes with him around; they're all too afraid to dig deeper, afraid of what they'll find. But not you. Me and you- we're alike in a lot of ways. That's why I'd like to cordially invite you to play in the Great Game. Think of it as a little interview, pretest-type thing. I can't wait to hear more from you, Sherlock. I'm expecting Great things from you, my dear. **

**~M**

**Post Script:**

**You might want to look into how the rest of your pet's friendships with new kids have ended, Sherry-dear, I wouldn't want you to get hurt… Ever notice how he never hangs out with you after school?**


	10. Chapter 10

*****A/N: **

_Thanks for everyone who has stuck with me this far. I'm back on a daily update schedule unless something comes up. Please keep reviewing, sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me writing. (As I said, I'm a terrible self-motivator.) Tell me what you want to happen next, what you like, what you hate, what you think needs a touch up. I take all reviews seriously and appreciate any and all feedback._

_On one other note, sorry for the cliff-hanger tonight. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!_

*****New tags:**_ none_

Contemplating life wasn't something John had a lot of time to do on an average day, but it's what he found himself doing as he got on the bus with Harry, (semi-permanently attached at the lips to Una), on his way home from school. He didn't know what he was doing anymore with the new kid- no, he couldn't say that anymore. It sounded too impersonal, too stiff and formal for what they had. A friendship, a connection, whatever you wanted to call it, it was there. And it wasn't supposed to be. He hadn't meant to befriend Sherlock Holmes, not really. Just another new kid, he'd thought, just someone else to help fit in with the crowd, to save from the idiotic Anderson and his cronies. He'd been proved wrong. Completely.

Sherlock Holmes was a wonder, an impossibility, and a brilliance, comparable to that of the brightest of stars. He was quick-witted, intelligent company. He was funny, in his own quirky way, and he always had an opinion on everything. Best of all, things were never, ever boring with Sherlock around. John found himself genuinely liking him, and enjoying the time they spent together. Things were spinning out of control rather quickly and he wasn't sure he'd be able to survive another complication in his life right then. With his father out of jail, his sister dating his host mother's daughter (and if that wasn't a relationship doomed to an overly dramatic and heart-wrenching end, he did know what one was), and the bullies of the school just barely held in check, he couldn't really deal with Sherlock questioning the status quo at school on a daily basis.

But he didn't want to give up on Sherlock either. He didn't want to lose Sherlock's friendship. It was the one real, healthy relationship he was in at the moment, and he wanted it to last. He sighed and shifted in his seat, ever conscious of the passionate snogging occurring only inches away from him. This was going to blow up in his face; he just knew he couldn't handle so many different things at once. But they were all too precious to give up. So he'd cling to them and hope for the best.

*DING*

Thankful for the distraction from his dreary thoughts, he pulled out his phone to check the text message.

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:32p.m.**

**Come to my house after school tomorrow if convenient. **

_What?_ John thought, _Where'd that come from?_ They never hung out after school, mostly because John wasn't planning on becoming actual friends with Sherlock and was kind of in denial about the whole thing (until now.) Oh well, he didn't have any such qualms now. Plus, he was curious-

**Fr: J.W.**

**To: S.H.**

**4:34p.m.**

**Alright, but I'll need a ride. I have to make sure Harry gets home safely; can you pick me up from my apartment? **

The bus pulled up to their stop and he nudged Harry in the ribs and stood, weaving his way through the standing crowd to the front of the bus.

*DING*

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:35p.m.**

**Yes. What time?**

He grinned. Sherlock's texting style was just so _him_; all no-nonsense and to the point. He glanced up in time to narrowly avoid tripping down the bus stairs and quickly shoved his phone back into his pocket, mindful of Harry and Una's staggering progress behind him.

*DING*

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:37p.m.**

**John? **

He dug his phone back out and read the text. The impatience of the man was another thing that amazed John, although not in an entirely good way. Harry and Una were just getting off the bus, (finally), and John guided them firmly across the street and unlocked the front door for them.

"You guys go on up, I'll be there in few minutes. I'm going to go for a walk."

Harry rolled her eyes and started dragging Una inside. "We're not in primary school John, we can handle ourselves. You don't need to walk us home."

"Yeah, whatever you say Harry. Be good. I don't want to come back to you two doing anything that you wouldn't want Mrs. Hudson seeing. See you later Una."

Una blushed and nodded. She was always shy around guys, no matter how often she tried to interact with them. (She was most definitely not shy around girls, going by the amount of times he'd caught her snogging one.) With one last wave, she and Harry made their way into the flat. He watched until he saw the door shut behind them before he locked it and turned around…

…Only to drop his phone in shock.

"Hello Johnny m'boy. Miss me?"

*DING*

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:40p.m.**

**JOHN?**

*DING*

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:45p.m.**

**JOHN?**

*DING*

**Fr: S.H.**

**To: J.W.**

**4:55p.m.**

**JOHN?**


	11. Chapter 11

*****New tags: **_traumatic flashbacks, not very graphic but slightly graphic child abuse, sad, i promise it gets better soon,i love happy endings but this story doesn't have one yet, it will though  
_

*****A/N:**

_Thanks for following thus far, and now, back to our story:_

"Hello Johnny m'boy. Miss me?"

"…"

All humans have a fight or flight response. It's instinct. Usually one person is weighted more towards one end of the spectrum, like a child sitting on a teeter totter. John had always thought of himself as more of a fighter than a flyer. He confronted his problems head-on, he didn't shy away from danger, and he grew steadier the more frightened he became.

*DING*

He reached down and picked up his fallen phone, keeping both eyes still on _Him. _It was another text; Sherlock really was impatient... No. He couldn't think of Sherlock now. _He_ was here and _He_ looked angry. Images and repressed memories were flashing in and out of his mind, enraging and confusing him in turn.

FLASH

_And he was on the floor, curled up in the fetal position in a morbid reenactment of his pre-birth state, protecting himself as best as he could from the onslaught of kicks and curses, both word and blow stinging equally._

FLASH

_He_ approached slowly, like _He_ had all the time in the world. John found himself paralyzed, frozen to the spot. He never wished he was a flyer more than at that moment. He willed himself to move, even just one step…

"Come 'ere, boy, you know what yer in fer…"

FLASH

_Standing this time, managing to keep some dignity as he withstood the drunken rage. More shouting and insults than actual beating; _He_ was too drunk to hit _His_ mark that night. Harry was crying in the bathroom, she could be heard clearly through the thin walls. John had locked her in there an hour previously in a desperate attempt to protect. Each sobbing gasp burned at his heart, tore at his very soul. His sister, in pain, and he couldn't protect her. He couldn't stop her tears. He tried, only heaven knows how hard he tried, but still she did not go unharmed. Still she cried. It hurt. Wasn't he good enough?_

FLASH

"Johnny, you oughta know better than t' try an' run from me, I raised y' be'er 'n 'at."

Raised him? What cruel, cruel irony. It was too much, all at once, he couldn't take it anymore. Too much, too loud, too painful- _He_ reached out and grabbed John's arm, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises and…

FLASH

…_John was scared, really truly scared, not for the first time, but hopefully for the last. He was returning to their house to get some of their stuff. Stuff Harry wouldn't allow them to leave without; wouldn't move on without. Stuff they'd had for years and years. They'd already moved out of the house and were in a foster transition home, awaiting their placement. _He_ was not supposed to be back for a couple of hours, so John had snuck in through his old bedroom window and quietly, carefully gathered all the things on Harry's list, plus a couple of his own childhood treasures, stuffing them into a garbage bag. That's when he heard the front door slam. The heavy breathing, the stumbling steps- it was _Him_! John ducked into the hallway closet, wondering if he should risk shutting it behind him. The left door squeaked when closing- but would _He_ notice if it was left open? Hopefully not,_ He_ was drunk, judging by the time of day and of what John knew of Him. Hopefully- oh God. He'd been noticed. Screaming and writhing and fighting back as best as he could, all to no avail. Why wasn't anyone coming? Wouldn't anyone save him? It hurt. It HURT HURT HURT, he was in so much pain. PAIN PAIN PAIN. Throbbing and pulsing like a heartbeat. Why couldn't he feel anything but pain anymore? Had he lost his pulse? Then blackness. Sweet nothingness carried him away back to…_

FLASH

"Don't be a coward son, take it like uh man."

Reality stung his eyes as he was whipped back, out of his mind's eye. Tears threatened to pour out, his heart stuttered in his chest. He felt like he was dying; he couldn't tell anymore, what was real, what wasn't. His father's taunts melded with his memories and he could feel every punch, every kick, every carelessly thrown beer bottle all over again along with the newest in a long, terribly unending line of beatings. He couldn't, just could NOT do it any longer. He thought he was done with this. They promised he'd be safe!

*DING*

What? What was that? The sudden, foreign noise snapped him out of his despair and then it was all: fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or …

For the first time in his life, John Watson ran. He didn't think, he just wrenched away from his unsuspecting father's weakened grip and ran. Ignoring the curses chasing him down the street he ran as fast as he could, breaths burning in his lungs, legs flying down the pavement, arms pumping. Wetness trailed its way down his cheeks and - ah - he realized he was crying.

He ran like he'd never run before, like he didn't ever want to stop. He didn't.

And then his leg gave out.

*DING*

*****A/N:**

_Next chapter involves some Sherlock to the rescue, the awesomeness of the Holmes family, and John allowing himself to be less than perfect for once. Around people he trusts. Good on him. Also, it'll be from Sherlock's perspective (I think.) Hope this chapter wasn't too confusing; it was meant to be a little disorienting because John was feeling disoriented but not so much that you couldn't follow it. Please tell me what you think; what can I change/fix to make it better? Even stupid spelling and grammar errors- I don't have a beta so I need your help. Also, thank you for all the lovely reviews, they inspire me and make me smile (and more importantly, write.) _

*****BLOOPERS:**

_I had a very hard time writing this chapter, and so I asked my sister what I should say. Her reply:_

_And then a symbolic man who is symbolic of the guy who got saved over Jesus symbolically shows up and does some symbolic stuff. You know he's like, "Jesus was a bro; ya know I'm alive. He's alive too, so that just goes to show that if someone's going to die make it the one with the best hair cause he's got a better chance."_

_Yeah. I love her and her humor, she is just plain amazing. I was severely tempted to just make that the new update, but I'm not that mean. :P_


	12. Chapter 12

*****A/N:**

_Hey so I changed my mind, this chapter is another John's perspective piece. Sorry:P Also, my sister wanted to write her own author's note so please check the bottom of the story for more of her hilariousness to those who requested it. She says, "Thank you internets" to those who complimented her last chapter. :D I appreciate reviews, please keep giving me your thoughts. REVIEWS ARE HAPPINESS!_

When John fell down, he didn't bother getting back up right away. Honestly, in that moment, he didn't have the motivation to do so. Instead he checked his phone, the source of the dinging that had saved him previously.

**You have ****3**** new messages! Open?**

**Fr: S.H. **

**To: J.W.**

**4:55p.m.**

**JOHN?**

Three identical messages, all from Sherlock. His self-proclaimed sociopathic friend was worried about him? Before he could think it through and stop himself, he was calling him. It rang only once and then…

"I prefer to text John." Sherlock's voice was as casual and cool as ever but to John it seemed to be the only island of calm, (ironic, he knew), in his sea of terror, confusion, and pain. He desperately clutched the phone, wanting to be closer to the calm. He needed this right now. He needed…

"John? Are you there? Are you alright? What's going on?" Still calm, but with a hint of something more- concern? John tried to speak, found his throat too dry, cleared it, and tried again.

"I… " he rasped, "I…" and that's as far as her got. Humiliation choked his throat. He wanted, no, he needed someone to help him right then, he needed Sherlock, but he found himself unable to ask. Luckily, Sherlock was a pretty intelligent bloke. Words aren't always necessary when one has a friend like Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you want to come over now instead? I'll send a car. I can ask Mycroft where you're at." Asking Mycroft for help? That showed at least a little worry right? If John didn't know better, he'd definitely say that was concern in Sherlock's voice. He thought he knew better…but maybe not. Wishful thinking could really be a b****.

"Please," and god he hated how desperate he sounded right then. (Not that he could help it. Ugh.)

"It'll be there in five to twenty minutes tops. Do you… want to keep talking in the mean time?" Wow- he must sound pretty messed up if Sherlock was being this nice.

"Can you? I'm not up to doing much other than trying to get off the sidewalk before the driver gets here." He attempted to joke, but his laugh came out broken.

So Sherlock rambled and John listened and even managed to almost smile once or twice. His hands wouldn't stop shaking though, and his leg wouldn't support his weight at all. He had to crawl over to a building and use a wall to lever himself up. When the car came, he wasn't sure how he'd manage the transition into it.

He needn't have worried. The car, black and sleek and inconspicuously conspicuous, pulled up and Sherlock himself jumped out.

"Need a hand?" he said into his mobile, making it echo with the closeness of the two. He was smiling and John decided then and there that his pride could go screw itself because all he wanted right then was to hug his best friend and then possibly cry. He'd refrain from the second as best he could, but when Sherlock approached he didn't hold back on the first. Pushing off the wall, he semi-tackled Sherlock in an attempt to both hug him and hold himself upright. Sherlock let out a huff of surprise at the unexpected weight but didn't pull away. Instead, he stood there awkwardly, hands pinned to his sides, while John tried to get himself sorted.

"Right," John declared after a moment's pause. "I think I'm good. Could you…"

He didn't even need to finish his sentence; Sherlock anticipated his request by sliding one arm across his back and under his arm, pulling John's other arm around his hunched shoulders.

"God, do you have to be so d***ed tall Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked affronted.

"I'm not tall, you just have an unusually short stature. Now shut up and get in the d*** car."

John allowed himself the ghost of a smile, a Sherlock resorting to swearing was an embarassed Sherlock. So he ignored Sherlock's rude tone and got "in the d*** car." For the first time in the past hour, he felt like he could breathe again.

*****A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_THIS IS AN ALL CAPS VEHICLE DRIVEN BY YOUR AUTHOR'S SISTER. THERE IS A SIGN IN THE BACK WINDOW THAT READS AS FOLLOWS:_

_HONK FOR MORE BLOOPERS?_

_MUCH LOVE _

_HONK BUDDY, GO CRAZY ON THAT STEERING WHEEL._

_So basically, I don't know where that metaphor was headed._

**_***A/N:_**

_So yeah, if you leave a review with a honk somewhere in it, she'll be writing more bloopers at the end of chapters. If you don't like them, tell me as well. (Don't be mean though, she's my little sister and I will not take kindly to haters.)_


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **

_As of last chapter, you guys have helped me make it to a personal goal of mine. That's right, over 100 followers and OVER NINE THOUSAND VIEWS! (I wanted to get to that particular number, 9000, so that my sister could fulfill her dream of screaming "the power level is OVER NINE THOUSAND?! IMPOSSIBLE!" like in Dragonball Z. So thank you, thank you, thank you so very much for all of you who have read, reviewed, followed, and favorite. You guys are my heroes. In other news, I'm going on a college tour Thursday night to Saturday morning and therefore updates might be a bit slower then. To make up for it, I'm trying to upload two short chapters tonight. Wish me luck, and keep reviewing:D_

Sherlock wasn't sure what was going on. He was acting all… _sentimental _and it was just plain_ weird_. He didn't like it; he didn't know how to behave that way. But when he heard John's voice, so broken and vulnerable, he had to come to meet him. And when John hugged him, it would've been a sin to pull away, (or so it felt.) The mysterious M's warnings floated through his head, but he pushed them away into the cellar of his Mind Palace. Now was not the time. Now, John needed him. (And though it was a strange feeling, Sherlock found he actually quite… _enjoyed_ it. Huh.)

So they drove to his mansion, the silence not uncomfortable but not really enjoyable either. There was a tension there, present in the shuddering breaths John took to calm himself and the shaking in his hands. If Sherlock was honest, he'd confess that it scared him. Alone was what he had. Alone protected him. But now… now he found himself wanting more. He wanted to protect and to be protected, to care and to care about. Caring was not an advantage, he knew that. Mycroft'd told him more times than he could count. It didn't stop him from wishing though, from wanting, from feeling like he was missing something. John filled the cracks and holes in him he didn't even know he had, smoothed ragged edges of pain and loneliness.

And now, John was finally opening up to him too. John might not be a sociopathic genius, but he was extremely self-contained and he didn't display his feelings as openly as most people did. Sherlock wasn't particularly good at picking up on that sort of stuff anyways, not when it was directed toward him. Not when he was invested. He needed openness from people; he needed a willing offering of feelings for him to even have a hope of understanding them. John was giving him this by allowing Sherlock, of all people, to be the one he turned to when he needed help, and he was so grateful, so moved by it that he could almost _physically_ feel it.

Sherlock was not unfeeling. He was a self-diagnosed sociopath, not because he didn't have feelings, but because he felt them differently than other people. He was actually extremely sensitive, more so than the average person. When he was young, he was wildly naïve, open, and as emotional as any Shakespearean protagonist. He felt things deeply, in the very center of his soul. When he started seeing more of the world, at first he was hurt easily- scarred from mere words. It scared him like nothing had before. So he did what any smart person would do when they were being attacked: he defended.

Strong barriers were erected around his heart, solid and carefully maintained. Distraction and disguise and counter attack plans were formed and enacted. By the time he was twelve, everyone but his very close family were sure he was an apathetic freak of nature with an above-average I.Q.

Everyone until John. John had taken the time to get to know him, to befriend him, and to care about him. Maybe he had his own reasons for doing so, but Sherlock valued it. It was precious to him. John and John's friendship were precious to him. So yes, it may seem to John, and, indeed, to the rest of the world, out of character of him to be so kind and gentle toward him. To take him to his home, get him cleaned up, showered, fed, and warm. To talk to him mindlessly about little nothings, puzzles and experiments he was working on, until John loosened up and laughed, truly laughed.

It might seem odd. But it really, really wasn't. Not when you think about it. Not when you know what John did for Sherlock, and how much it meant to him.

**A/N:**

_Also, to those of you who in their reviews told me DFTBA, I love you. I won't ever forget;__ Nerdfighters FTW! That is all._

**A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_Supposedly I am to become a permanent part of the story with OVER 9000 views now. Much apologies if my tone or anything about my everything clashes with my sister's eloquent writing or the fact that she has morals. And so it begins._

_So here's a story for ya'll. Once I was at my lady friend's house, who is actually a male friend and is actually my *cringes* boyfriend.. Anywho, I was at his house. And he was not there, because I arrived early and he was out being a hardcore-BMX-punk-kid*. So I was chatting with his mom. And I was doing well with hiding my social anxiety. And then his dog barked. And I, logically, growled promptly and angrily in response. Then I continued conversation without realizing I had done that for quite some time. That is all._

_Also. FRENCH THE LLAMA, I LOVE NERDFIGHTERIA_

_*excessively and all-encompassingly nerdy. Though in his defense, he does bmx_


	14. Chapter 14

*****A/N:**

_Because you guys are so awesome, here's another chapter. Longer this time too:P Enjoy!_

John was so messed up about his encounter with his dad that he didn't think to call Harry, Una, or Mrs. Hudson until Mrs. Holmes invited him to dinner.

"I'll have to call home and ask… Ah. AH! Holy s***! I've got to call Harry!" He rushed from the room, muttering a quick apology to Mrs. Holmes on his way out without looking up from dialing the number. Sherlock followed him silently, but he barely registered it. All his attention was on the phone- he'd never forgive himself if they'd been hurt. It rang six times before she picked up, each unanswered ring causing him fear so deep it translated to an actual physical pain in his chest. Finally, someone picked up…

"'Lo?" He felt relief flood over him instantly, soothing his nerves. Harry was drunk, he could tell, but that wasn't unusual for her and at least she was answering the phone. Hopefully, that meant she was fine…

"Oh, Harry, thank god. It's John. Are you okay? Are the Hudson's?"

"Whah? Wha's goin' on John, 'smatter? Wait," she said, pausing, (and suddenly, she sounded so much more lucid), "Why wouldn't we be?"

"I need you to listen to me, okay Harry? Listen closely and do exactly what I tell you. Is Mrs. Hudson home?"

"Yeah, she just got back a few minutes ago, why?"

"Alright, I need you to lock all the doors and to stay in the house tonight. Keep the Hudson's inside too; I don't care what you have to make up to do it. Just make sure they don't leave."

"John, you're scaring me. What's going on?"

"…"

"John, just tell me! Or I'll walk out of this apartment right now."

"D**mmit Harry, you're not making this easy."

"I wasn't going for easy, John. I was going for information. Now spill. Where are you anyways? You said you'd be up right behind us!"

"I… got detained," John said, stalling for time. He was pretty sure that wasn't very accurate phrasing, but whatever. Harry would not stop bugging him and he knew her well enough not to take her threats lightly. He took a deep breath; it was time to tell her.

"Harry, you know how father is out of jail now? And how I told you to be careful?"

He heard the sharp intake of breath from Harry's end of the line and grimaced. Yeah, of course she knew. It wasn't something so easy to forget.

"Yeah…" A few moments of pregnant silence passed. John gathered his courage and pushed on.

"He showed up at the apartment when you guys went inside. We… well, we kind of got into it a bit. I'm fine, honest, but I just want you to make sure to stay extra careful tonight, ok?"

"JOHN HAMISH WATSON! YOU COMPLETE F***ING _IDIOT_!" And oh god, oh god no, was she crying?! Why?

"Harry, I'm completely fine, calm down! I'm at a friend's house, just hanging out. I was only calling because I'm staying for dinner! I swear; I'm okay!"

"You *hic* f***ing idiot! Haven't I f***ing told you not to get yourself f***ing *hic* hurt again! You f***er!" She was wailing now, the progression of her theatrics moving on to stage two. He felt a bit guilty that he was glad he wouldn't be home to witness stage three, (throwing random objects), and stage four, (drinking herself into unconsciousness.)

"Just breathe, Harry. I'm barely hurt at all," John winced at Sherlock's accusatory glare; but he'd rather lie to her than listen to her cry.

"Real- *hic* -really?"

"Yeah, Harry, really. Now why don't you go lock those doors and then find Una and make some dinner? I'll be home around eleven to check on you."

"…*hic*… Okay."

"Alright. Bye Harry, take care of yourself. I love you."

"…*hic* I love you too you utter bastard. Be safe, for me?"

"Always."

*click*

"Do you always lie to your sister that much?" Sherlock sounded amused.

"Only when it's for her own protection (or my sanity.) I don't like it, but sometimes it's a necessary evil." The heaviness he got from telling his sister bad news was trying to settle on his shoulders; he shook himself to try to rid himself of it.

Sherlock just laughed.

"Don't worry about it; I lie to Mycroft all the time," he said, smirking.

"That doesn't really compare does it? From what you've told me of him, he could tell when you're not telling the truth easily. Or find out somehow, with his spies. What is he, MI6 or the phantom Prime Minister?" John joked, feeling lighter already.

"True, I guess. He's probably secretly the British Government with the amount of power he has. Honestly, it's ridiculous. I despair for our nation; we can't even choose someone with a healthy diet to lead us."

"Very_ funny_, Sherlock," Mycroft sneered from where he'd appeared by the door.

John jumped in surprise.

"What the h***- when did you get here?"

"Hello John," He added politely. "Sherlock- dinner's ready, and I heard that John's actually got you to eat something?"

"Oh shut up Mycroft. We'll be there in a minute," he said, waving him away airily.

"So dramatic. We'll be waiting for you in the main hall," and with a final nod to John, he left.

Sherlock was indignant.

"_I'm_ the dramatic one?! I'm not dramatic! He's the one who rides around in a bloody tinted black car all day and won't tell anyone what his real job is. He's the one who made the showy entrance!"

"You two are really something, you know that?" John grinned, completely incredulous. Sherlock frowned.

"Not something, _someone_. Two someones, actually. Now let's go to dinner, or Mycroft will be tiresome and send someone else to fetch us."

John couldn't help but laugh as he followed a still sulking Sherlock out of the room.

*****A/N:**

_Hey guys, here's another new chapter. Hope you like it and review it. There was one more thing I wanted to talk about today and that is whether or not you guys think I'm dragging this out too much. I don't want to be the author that keeps going even when her readers have lost interest. So please tell me what you think! Right now, unless you guys think I need to get to the point faster, I'm projecting this project to take around 25 chapters, give or take a few. Please give me your feedback; would you be willing to keep up with this story for that long, or should I shorten it?_

_Also, my sister re-read what she wrote for chapter 11 and was all like,  
"Was I high?" *pause* "The answer is no.__"_

_STRAIGHT EDGE FTW PEOPLE! (yeah, she's never been high or drunk in her life.)_

*****A/N: BLOOPER EDITION **

_Consider finding this in a fortune cookie:_

_"You wish Lion-O the Thundercat would call you, but instead you spend a lot of time unnecessarily worrying about gerbils getting stuck inside of you. Which is kind of a metaphor for life. A really, really bad one."_

_-Quote credit to Jenny Lawson from her book Let's pretend this never Happened_


	15. Chapter 15

*****A/N:**

_Sorry about the past few days not updating, but during my break I managed to figure out the entire plot of the story with the help of my dear friends, Bre and Erika. Thanks for your support and letting me rant at you and giving me your ideas… I love you guys__ Now that I've figured it out, I think it'll be 30 chapters total. Look forward to the introduction of a bunch of plot twists and characters in the coming chapters; it's all building up to something big! And as ever, I love reviews. Please keep making me smile by telling me what you think, whether it be advice, edits, suggestions, or simply a rant. Thanks for your readership!_

"Dinner is served," declared the petite, (and frankly gorgeous), woman at the head of the table. She looked to be around thirty years old, with long copper curls that were piled atop her head in a complicated twisting up-do and that cascaded out of said hairdo to reach down as far as her waist. Sherlock had inherited his cheekbones from her. She was adorned in a striking emerald three-quarter sleeved, low-cut, floor-length gown that matched her eye color's exact shade. Golden embroidery spiraled from a spot around waist-height down to her toes and up across her chest. John decided that she might as well have been wearing a crown- she exuded an air of aristocracy so thick he found himself struggling to feel human and not, for example, like an insignificant ant.

At the other end of the (seemingly mile-long) table, a tall, willowy brunette man's piercing blue eyes cut violently across the room, sending shivers down John's spine. Mycroft's long, bird-like nose had come from his father, but Sherlock had gotten his eyes, and his glare. Silence fell in the room and apparently he'd somehow signaled because suddenly maids were everywhere, uncovering platters of food and pouring drinks. The man, bedecked in a charcoal-gray designer suit, complete with a white silk shirt, pocket watch, vest, and knee-length over coat, (not to mention the steel blue tie that reflected his iris's pigment), looked like he'd just stepped out of an issue of GQ's Men's Apparel Magazine. John had wondered where Sherlock had gotten his stylish (posh) way of dressing- now he knew. Apparently it ran in the family- Mycroft also dressed in grey suits that looked like they'd cost more money than an entire month's food bill for John, and each complimented his mysterious could-be-grey-blue-or-brown eyes as well. John felt like he'd stumbled onto a different planet, or an alternate universe, or something.

Were people really this rich anymore? It felt too insane to exist. And John felt terribly under-dressed. He was wearing one of Sherlock's silk shirts, yeah, but it was too tight and too long on him at the same time. And the pale blue might have matched his eyes, but the bruising on his face and neck probably detracted any points in his favor that may have gotten him. Plus, his trousers were jeans that he'd had in his book bag when he had run, white-washed and several years old. There was nothing artsy about the tearing around the knees; it'd happened when he had fallen in them a few weeks ago.

He felt totally out of place- what was one supposed to do with four forks, three knives, three cups, two plates, two spoons, a bowl, and a silk cloth napkin anyways? And the food- it was so fancy and so ridiculous he didn't even know what to do with it. When it was uncovered, he found a steaming clear soup with strange black shapes floating in it and what must have been some sort of salad (but that looked like a sculpture made from lettuce and sliced veggies.) According to one very amused Sherlock, whose whispered directions had helped him figure out what he was supposed to be eating with and when, the main course would be next, than the dessert, the cheese course, (and really, what on earth was that?), and finally tea or espresso.

"I can understand a bit why you're so averse to eating now, if this is what you have to go through every time. God… How do you rich people stay so thin if you eat so much?"

Sherlock just smirked, letting his eyes laugh in place of his vocal cords. John smiled back, somewhat awkwardly, still feeling odd because of the tension and formalness around him. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes weren't speaking at all now, nor was Mycroft. They ate daintily and silently. Mrs. Holmes picked at her food, barely touching it. Mycroft ate like a dog being told to stay while its food bowl was sitting only two feet away. Mr. Holmes ate with precision and purpose, stabbing his salad like it'd personally wronged him. Maybe it had.

Conversation didn't pick up until fifteen minutes later when the maids all brought in the main course. One girl, a nervous brunette who looked around John's own age, served Sherlock and John and then sat down herself, on Sherlock's opposite side. A man, presumably her father based on their similar appearances, also sat down, across from her and next to Mycroft.

"So… who's your friend sir?" The man's voice quavered, tinny and nowhere near enough to fill the vastness of the silence. Sherlock lifted his gaze from his food.

"Ah, right. I guess introductions would be in order. John Watson, this is our groundskeeper, Mr. Hooper, and his daughter, Molly. Molly, Mr. Hooper, this is my friend, John Watson," was Sherlock's bored-sounding reply.

"Y-you're in my fifth period, r-right John?" but even as she asked, Molly's eyes only left Sherlock's face for a second. John would've had to be blind to not see the attraction in her gaze. He smiled, nodding.

"Yeah, you sit behind me in maths. So… do you live here?"

"Uhh… yeah. My dad's a live-in groundskeeper; we both stay in a little place near the pond around back, just off the main house. I'm working here after school to raise money for college."

"That's cool, what do you want to major in?" By this point, John was desperate for anyone or anything to break up the silence, and Molly seemed to be a willing cooperator.

"Err, I'll be going for my pre-med bachelor degree. Eventually, I want to go to a medical school after my undergraduate and then specialize in forensic entomology, toxicology and law." She ducked her head shyly; speaking too long seemed to be out of her comfort zone.

After that, conversation flowed relatively easily; whenever it stuttered, John would put a question to Molly or Sherlock or Mr. Hooper and it'd pick back up. Even Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft joined in randomly, though they startled John badly each time they deigned to do so.

Finally, two and a half hours later, the last of the plates, silverware, and cups were cleared away and the Holmes' and Hooper's had all retired except Sherlock.

"I'll accompany you on your drive back," Sherlock informed him. "Follow me, let's go get the driver."

"Okay," John answered, grateful once again to his friend. They walked down to the bottom floor where John waited patiently while Sherlock called his driver, telling him to pull around front. Then they both went outside to wait.

"John?"

"Hmm, what is it Sherlock?" He'd been drifting off a little, content with a full belly, warmth, and safety.

"About the… about my family. We aren't the most… well; we don't do socialness very well. Not unless we need to. So…" He paused, looking a little lost. The lack of his usual eloquence unnerved John a little.

"Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine," and when Sherlock stopped gesturing awkwardly to smile at him, he counted it as a win.

*****A/N:**

_Now that I've got the whole plot written, this is the last filler chapter. From here on out, it'll all be thick plot building and enactment. Thank you for sticking with me so far, (half way there!), please tell me if I've made any mistakes this (or previous) chapters and I'd be glad to fix it. Also, tell me what parts you liked and didn't like. Hope everyone's having a good weekend. _

*****A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_Reading my sister's lovely story reminds me of the time I spent enrolled in a British private school. Basically, I showed up one year, not knowing diddlysquat*, and introduced the entire school to Neopets. It was a freakin' Neopets revolution. Also, memorably, my math teacher was in the lovely habit of telling me to die quietly. Then I left for America again._

_*Yes, diddlysquat is a technical term._


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: IMPORTANT PLEASE READ**

_Hey guys, today I bring you a special chapter. This one is slightly longer than my usual chapters and will be told from three minor characters' points of view. Lestrade, Molly, and Stamford will all give you their view of how Sherlock and John have changed since meeting each other. Also, major foreshadowing- I'd be interested in hearing what you think is going to happen next based off the clues I gave you. I hope you enjoy:)_

Molly Hooper had lived with the Holmes family since she was twelve years old and had been crushing on their youngest son, Sherlock, the entire time. He was cold and rude to her almost all of the time (except when he wanted something); she knew she didn't have much of a chance. But that didn't stop her stupid disobedient heart from beating faster when he was around or her traitorous cheeks from coloring when he smiled.

She thought at times she knew him and his mannerisms better than his own parents. And, unfortunately, this gave her unwanted hope, hope that she just _knew_ he would crush mercilessly, (but not malevolently, he wasn't a cruel man), because Molly _knew_ him. She knew he was neither heartless nor incapable of love. She knew he was human. She knew he got hurt, bored, even scared, just like any other person. Well; not quite "just like," he was too unique for that. (Too brilliant, too special.) But he felt emotions, and if he was cut she knew he'd bleed blood, just like the rest of humanity. Yes, he was definitely human, through and through. (And though every what if, could be, and maybe if I cut her deeply, but she wouldn't trade her knowledge of him for anything.)

So, when he transferred schools yet again, after Mycroft got tired of threatening the parents of class bullies to just LEAVE OFF already or there would be consequences, she was a bit worried. She resolved to make sure he was protected, safe. Everyone in the school knew about John Watson and his deeds and Molly was no more ignorant than the next person. (If anything, she was less.) All she needed to do was to make sure John was aware of Sherlock, the new kid. It had required some doing, getting Lestrade out of class at the right time and making sure John was told.

But it had been worth it. She couldn't remember ever seeing Sherlock so alive, so engaged. Boredom was a poison that killed Sherlock Holmes; it tortured him and slowly drained him. John brought Sherlock to life. But it was more than that- Molly couldn't contain the pride she felt for being (at least partly) responsible for causing the meeting of Sherlock and his first true friend.

…

Gregory Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for five years before he transferred to St. Bart's. Greg's dad, Police Chief Lestrade, had suffered through various dealings with the kid throughout the years when he was only ten or eleven. Most memorably was the case of little Carl Powers, a local swimmer, who'd drowned in a pool. It had been the first time he'd met the strange boy. Sherlock had been nosy and noisy enough about the whole thing that Greg's dad had been forced to post-pone their weekend camping trip for several hours to check it out. They'd been on their way out of the city when he'd gotten the call. Greg remembered it clearly- his dad had sworn rather loudly upon answering, then, glancing at him, apologized and explained the situation. He had tried to make it out to be some sort of adventure, telling his son that he was lucky to get to go to his very first crime scene so young. Greg, aged 12 and an aspiring park ranger, was not impressed. He'd been promised camping - he wanted camping.

But when they arrived at the scene and met the wired, persistent child and he heard his deductions, Greg couldn't help but change his mind. The kid was a genius; that much was clear to him. Not so to his father. He remembered trying to pester his dad into looking into it but his he had been adamant- no meant no. Sherlock had been irritated and disgusted with the refusal, but he'd smiled at Greg when he tried to convince his father. Greg hadn't forgotten the boy, his clear eyes, wild curly hair, his intellect, none of it. Nor had he forgotten the words young Sherlock had spoken to him that night before they'd left, "Your father is an incompetent fool; he can't see what is right in front of him. But you- you're promising. You'd make a decent detective."

Now, five years later, a lot of things had changed. Greg's dad had been demoted after being caught in a scandal cheating on his wife with an ambulance driver and Greg had moved schools because of it. It had been his second to last year of high school when it all happened. He remembered his nerves and insecurities as he walked into St. Bart's the first time and the kid who had helped him move past them- John Watson, his first friend at the new school. At first, he hadn't noticed anything especially different about John except his cane. But Greg wasn't an idiot- it wasn't long before he started to see things. People respected John- they got out of his way in the hallways, allowed him to cut in the lunch lines, and when he spoke, people listened. For his part, John didn't behave any differently than other teens. He smiled, joked, laughed, talked, and worked like a normal kid. He was a bit more introverted and quiet sometimes, fiercely overprotective of his sister, and more stubborn than your average bull. But none of that explained the way that other kids (and even the teachers) treated him.

They whispered about him sometimes, always watching him in a manner that was probably meant to be discreet, and on days when he was late or missed classes, he was all anyone spoke about. It was all rather mysterious, and Greg didn't know what to make of it. John was a good friend but Greg just couldn't understand why when he wasn't on time for class; he'd leave everyone abuzz with whispers that no one ever let him overhear, and made the teacher glance nervously at the clock every few minutes until he showed up late, disheveled, and apologetic. When he returned everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief and relax, and the teacher would continue his or her lesson like normal. When he didn't show up at all, everyone would act more and more strangely until he appeared, at last, two or three hours later. When he asked, John always told Greg that he'd been feeling sick and had been in the nurse's office. Greg never believed him.

Perhaps it was the lies between them, or the secrecy, but suddenly, a few week after Greg transferred in, he realized that he had been spending progressively less and less time with John. John has introduced him to Mr. Dimmock's son, Geoff "Bulldog" Dimmock, named for his skill in rugby and his unfortunate nose. Greg had fit in perfectly with him and his friends right away- they played rugby and footie after school, dreamed of dating Mary Ann Morstan, the school idol, and fooled around in class. Geoff even shared Greg's dream of becoming a Detective Inspector with the police and they loved joking about all the criminals they would catch and who would catch more. Greg didn't know exactly when it'd started, but now that he'd noticed he realized that John was slowly fading out of his life. He knew that they'd never hung out after school and that they'd hardly been best friends, but he liked John. He didn't want to lose his friendship. It was around this time that he had finally gathered the courage to ask someone, straight out, what John's deal was.

It changed him. When he first heard, he was so_ angry_, so _indignant,_ so _upset_ that when he'd gotten home he'd cussed his dad out, asking him where the justice in the world was and wasn't he supposed to be a policeman to find it? But when he'd calmed down, he didn't know how to feel. John wouldn't want his pity. He didn't even seem to want his friendship. What could Greg do- what could _anyone_ do- to make it better? People would get hurt if John stopped, but John would continue to be hurt if he continued… What to do?

Greg was in his last year of high school now. He'd made a decision last year that sometimes consumed him with guilt. He didn't know if he quite regretted it, but it hurt him to see John some days. They'd almost become friends for real this time. They still rarely hung out after school- whenever they did it was never at John's house. But they talked regularly and did homework together at break nearly every day. John told Greg about his military and doctor dreams and his difficulty choosing between the two. It wasn't perfect, but it was their friendship and Greg tried to be grateful for what he has.

Then Sherlock came back and everything changed. At first, Greg though he'd be like all the others, John's friend while he settled in and found his niche, then they'd almost never speak again. But no- he should've known Sherlock Holmes would be unusual. It was now two months since Sherlock had started attending St. Bart's and Greg had never seen John smile as much as he did during those two months. Sherlock was different too- he never really bothered with anything or anyone but John. It used to be that he wouldn't put up with anyone unless he wanted something from them. John was softening him. The both looked happier when they were together. Greg hoped that nothing would happen to mess with things. He may actually have to beat up anyone who tried- they both deserved some happiness in life.

(He had been hearing some nasty rumors from some of his cousins at other local schools about gang problems. He knew that the gangs were acting out more frequently recently; he'd heard from his dad. He just wished it wouldn't cause any trouble for Sherlock and John.)

…

Michael Jay Stamford has been going to school with John Watson for around three years now. In that time, they'd been in every single class together except P.E. Apparently, they had similar interests. For their first year, they were merely acquaintances. Mike even had a crush on John's sister for a few weeks before it became known that she was a lesbian. However, as time went on and John's reputation spread school-wide, Mike became one of the few people who would and could and did still talk to John easily and frequently. People felt intimidated, awkward, unsure, even guilty around him. John never blamed them but Mike could sometimes tell he was lonely. He wouldn't really call them friends, but during classes they always partnered up together and the amount of mutual classes and interests they had ensured they spent a lot of time together and that they never had a lack of anything to talk about when they did.

They were never close, but when Sherlock Holmes transferred to their school, he could see the impact it had. John was still distant; he still occasionally came to class with bruises. But now- now he came with a smile on his face and a friend by his side. And Mike couldn't be happier for him.

(There had been some rumors lately of a new student transferring in soon- a girl. According to some of the guys, a really fit* girl. That she was studying up interest without even physically being around- Mike hoped nothing bad came of it.)

*fit: British term for sexy/hot

…

**A/N:**

_ A lot of you guys were saying I was depressing you with this story- here's some fluff to make up for it. Please review!_

_ (Also, on a side note for those of you who wanted to know, last chapter's blooper really did happen. My sister asked if she could go to the bathroom and her maths teacher told her "No, now die quietly please." xD We lived in England for one year when I was in fifth grade and she was in third and have since visited several times. Europe is a beautiful continent.)_

**A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_Let's get in the Halloween spirit ya'll._

_ This year, I think we should all intricately carve our pumpkins to look like Donald Trump. Donald Trumpkin. TRUMPKIN, like a pumpkin? Bahahahahahha. That totally wasn't an original joke._


	17. Chapter 17

*****A/N: EDIT- I'm behind on my daily update schedule; I know. I'm sorry but I've been a bit busy this week and it was too stressful to try to get it up. Once again, I apologize, I should be back on track soon. I just need some sleep and for my mom to get home from her very long work trip to India. **

_Hi guys. The plot thickens:_

Sherlock Holmes does not like making conclusions with incomplete data. Therefore, he observes and researches and experiments and inquires until he's satisfied with what he's learned and can make a viable hypothesis. The next step in his process is always to prove the hypothesis and convert it into a working theory, as close to absolute fact as possible. Knowing this, it shouldn't come as a surprise to learn that with a subject as complex and interesting as John, Sherlock took a while to gather all the necessary data.

He'd been observing John for nearly four months now and he was reasonably certain he'd gained all the information he could through observation and inquiry. It was time to confront and prove. He decided lunch time would be as good a time as any to do so. John could eat and nod and he could talk, (it wasn't like he'd be eating anyways.) They always met up in front of the cafeteria after fourth hour and then Sherlock chose the lunch table with what he declared had the least amount of annoying people. Today was no different, John met him their two minutes after Sherlock arrived and they entered the room together, Sherlock's eyes scanning the tables for a private spot. Ignoring Lestrade's beckoning he half-dragged, half-guided John to a table in the back corner with a bunch of noisy card players. They wouldn't be noticed there.

"John?" he started, (after giving him a few seconds to sit down and settle himself, of course. He really was getting better at this courtesy thing, John should be proud of him.)

"Yeah?" He returned, mumbling around a bite of baloney sandwich.

"I need you to validate some hypothesizes I have; listen please," he said, making it a command, not a question. John just raised an eyebrow and kept eating; Sherlock took it as his consent and opened his mouth to loose a verbal barrage that would scare Webster.

"You are the reason that this school has the lowest bullying rates in not only this city, but in nearly the entire country. You protect other kids from bullying by beating up anyone who tries it, but you never instigate any of the fights. You have a strong moral compass and therefore you do all these things out of sentiment, most likely due to the fact that you and/or your sister were bullied when you first started the school and you hate bullying due to your abusive father. How am I doing so far?"

John's mouth had dropped open after only Sherlock's first sentence and he hadn't managed to shut it yet. He just stared at Sherlock, gaping. Sherlock decided that this was his cue to continue.

"Most likely your sister got bullied due to her sexuality, but you were also on the wrong end of bullying at this school- for being a new kid? Is that why you're so protective of them? No, don't answer that. It is. You obviously have never taken any traditional martial arts classes, but you know how to fight. Self-taught, I'd assume. You plan on being in the army right? Or did you want to be a doctor? Not sure. Possibly both…"

"Sherlock…" Sherlock ignored John's feeble attempt to interrupt as if he hadn't said anything.

"Anyways, all the teachers and students in the school know you. They give you special allowances and treat you with respect but they don't stop the abuse you take. Too scared? Why though?! School bullies are nothing to fear, at least not to teachers. And this school doesn't have a lot of extremely rich parents; most are upper-middle class at the most so money isn't the reason-"

"Sherlock!" Finally he stopped, pulled up short by the quiet desperateness in John's voice. He glanced around, noticing the quietness in the lunch room. People were blatantly staring; whispers erupted everywhere. Sherlock ducked his head apologetically. By mutual silent agreement, they waited a few minutes, quietly discussing their (dull) chemistry project as things settled down again. After a bit, people returned to their own conversations and their food, glancing at them less and less as the minutes Sherlock couldn't contain his impatience and curiosity any longer.

"Tell me John," he beseeched. "I must know!"

"Sherlock-" John began, and then stopped, sighing. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"No."

"Fine, but keep your voice down and listen closely. I'm only saying this once. You probably noticed but the bullies at this school aren't normal. Generally, you'd think they'd give up after a while, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. He'd realized that almost immediately.

"So why don't they?"

"I'm getting to that Sherlock, patience." He took a deep breath, trying to ignore Sherlock's impatient fidgeting.

"Alright, here goes nothing: all the bullies at this school have gang ties. There; I said it. There's this new gang that started up five or six years ago that's been terrorizing lower London. The teachers- they're terrified of the gang. You must've heard how much stronger and more active gangs have been lately? No one wants to mess with them, things never end well. People say that they're trying to take over all of the schools in London. The rumors- well, let's just say they're pretty morbid." John shook his head. "Nothing I'd want to repeat," he finished, and though a barely perceptible shudder ran through him his hands remained completely steady as he un-wrapped his brownie.

Sherlock's brain went into immediate over drive trying to process the new information, connecting clues and slotting everything into place.

"That explains everything!" He exclaimed, a bit too loudly judging on the return of the stares and John's exasperated sigh.

"That explains everything," he tried again, quieter. John smiled approvingly.

"Glad to be of service," he joked. Sherlock's sly grin lit his face; he was exhilarated. That was one mystery partly solved. It was a satisfying feeling. But he wasn't done yet. There was so much more to learn- Why were the gangs trying to take over the schools? Who was in charge? How did you become a gang member? (It obviously wasn't based on intelligence if Anderson was in it.) And who else was involved? Were people he knew, people around him?

Sherlock was contemplating this contentedly as John finished up his lunch when a girl came running into the lunch room and literally sprinted straight for their table. She stopped, panting and coughing, in front of John, attempting to speak and gesticulating wildly. John immediately dropped his food and got to his feet.

"Breathe Mary, calm down. Then tell me what's going on. Are you okay? You're not hurt anywhere, are you?"

She shook her head wildly.

"Not… *pant" …me. *pant* Your sister…" John paled. He grabbed her by her shoulders.

"Where?" His voice was commanding and eerily calm.

"Sec- *cough* Second floor. *pant* Third corridor," She waved her arm at the door. "Hurry!"

But John was already long gone, Sherlock on his tail. This school was certainly not boring for long, Sherlock thought gleefully. Then he winced, John's voice in his head scolding him for the inappropriateness of the comment. Perhaps that was a bit not good, although he didn't really like John's sister. But for John's sake, he hoped Harry was okay, if for nothing else.

**A/N:**

_PLEASE REVIEW! It'll make me very, very happy:)_

**A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_So today in my Biochem class, our teacher told us that she had a student who related the lesson to the way that bunnies deflate when you cut off their tails. WHAT KIND OF WORLD IS THIS?!_


	18. Chapter 18

"Not… *pant" …me. *pant* your sister…"

John felt everything around him fade as those five simple words were spoken. Suddenly he wasn't thinking, wasn't processing anything. He was just running and running and running, operating purely on instinct. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock hot on his heels, but he didn't have the inclination to do anything about it just then. He pounded down three flights of stairs to the second floor, a steady litany of "please-god-let-harry-be-okay" running over and over in his head.

Second floor, third corridor… He sprinted straight through the crowds, barreling through the students who weren't paying enough attention to get out of his way first. He could tell he was getting close, he could hear Harry's swearing and… was that Una? Crying?

Oh god, it was. A burst of speed and a quickly-taken corner later, John was suddenly confronted with a scene that both exasperated and relieved him in equal measures.

"_You're_ breaking up with _me_?! What a joke! You're the alcoholic a**hole in this relationship!"

Just a relationship fight, John sighed with relief. It should be okay, right?

"Oh, so now it all comes out. Tell me how you really feel, Una! You're such a lying, repressed, hateful … HEY! Where do you think you're going? Una? UNA?! I'm talking to you, you b****! "

Una's face was streaming with tears and blood as she stormed down the hallway towards John, just brushing his shoulders as she rushed past, and obviously oblivious to everyone around her. Harry stood alone in the crowd, as oxymoronic as that sounds, looking lost with her feelings blazoned on her sleeve for all to see. Sorrow, shame, fear, anger, and beneath it all, struggling up from under the rapid currents of her emotions, love. And loss, and betrayal.

"Oh, Harry…" breathed John, moving forward to embrace her because, really, what else could he do? Just a relationship fight his a**, this was_ hurting_ her. She allowed him to pull her into a tight hug, shielding her from the nosy crowd while Sherlock made himself useful, scaring them away with death glares that could kill from 40 feet.

"What am I going to do with you, love?" He murmured into her hair, eliciting a choked laugh from her. The laughter quickly turned into sobs.

"Hush, Harry, I've got you. Hush, I'm right here…" John kept up his mantra of steady, soothing words, hugging her and rubbing comforting circles across her back. All on autopilot- his mind was occupied elsewhere. So Harry had broken up with Una… this would be problematic. This was why he didn't want them to date in the first place. What would Mrs. Hudson say? Would she kick them out? Would Una? It wasn't fair to them to have Una's ex around all the time, not to mention how awkward it'd be for John. But then again, they didn't exactly have anywhere else to go… D*** it all. What could they do? Where would they go?

Harry's sobbing grew louder, snapping John back to the present.

"Hey, Harry, calm down. We'll work this out together, alright. Look at me-" He pulled away, holding her at arms' length and continued, "Harry, look. At. Me. That's it. Now, I'm telling you you're going to be fine, alright? You hearing me? Ok. It might not feel like it now, but you are going to be just fine. Now I need you to breathe with me - can you do that? - there you go, in and out, just like that. In. And. Out. Brilliant. Now let me take a look at those cuts you've got, you guys really got into it, eh…" And on and on and on he went, babbling little nothings and fixing her up as best he could with the med kit that Sherlock had considerately located for them.

Sherlock was being particularly good, John noted absently as he dabbed Harry's split lip with a swab. It was nice, him standing off to the side like that, quiet and undistracting, but a comforting presence nonetheless. Now if only his life would quiet down like that… oh h***. He might be homeless tonight and really, why was Sherlock being so nice? It seemed to be seriously messing with his head- were his eyes watering?! Surely not. Nope, definitely not.

**A/N:**

_SORRY~! (This has been pure stress week and I really needed a break. Also, writers' block is soul-sucking. Please forgive me!) Also, sorry to Book girl fan for the swears in this chapter, I did try to limit them. Lastly, I'm now open to the world of beta. If you'd like to beta my stories, or be beta'd by me, PM me! I'd be honored, either way:)_

**A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_A continuation of my adventures in Britishland! As a result of attempts to get me to come out of my shell and socialize, I found myself in the school pottery club. So I spent the majority of the time hand crafting a tea pot for my mother. The whole freakin' year. Then, when it was finally time to fire it, I got a call during class. Very solemnly, the pottery teacher said something along the lines of, "I'm very sorry Nicole, I know this will be hard." She opened the kiln, and there lay my tea pot. Shattered. Logically, I burst into uncontrollable laughter and visited the school psychologist. Logically. _

_**EXTRA, because you guys have been so patient:**_

_A comment on youtube: Du kannst doch Clueso garnicht mit den_ _Beatsteaks vergleichen._

_My sister's translation: __"You can't eat closely garnished beatsteaks if you're a vegetarian"_

_Actual translation: You can't compare Clueso with the Beatsteaks._

_**PLEASE REVIEW! Thank you ever so much if you do:) **_

_(did you catch that clever rhyme lol?)_


	19. Chapter 19

John didn't think it was necessary to mention it. It really didn't need pointing out. Not at all, in his opinion. Apparently Sherlock disagreed- he brought it up as soon as they were alone again. John had delayed it for as long as he could; he somehow knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to drop something so interesting that easily. (He had still hoped though.)

After patching Harry up, mentally and physically, (though probably not emotionally, that'd take a while yet to be better), and arranging a place to meet up after school he had no more excuses. He sent her back to class and, like the brave man that he was, turned to face Sherlock. Who was staring. Right. At him. Ah. It appeared he would not be avoiding anything then.

"Alright Sherlock, I know you've been dying to say something. Spit it out," he sighed with resignation.

"You…" Sherlock hesitated. And what was this, the start of a display of actual TACT?! John was impressed. For all of… five seconds. Then he continued, "You... you were crying."

John nodded.

"I was."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_?

"Don't make repeat things, it's tedious. You are not this stupid John, just think! I mean, why! Why were you crying? You don't cry easily. As far as I can see, there wasn't any reason for it. Harry wasn't hurt badly and neither was that Una girl."

"Sherlock -"

"Unless… Ah. AH! Were you worried about Mrs. Hudson? You needn't, she's a decent woman; not the type to throw you out on the streets. "

"Sher-"

"Really John, if you'd just be a bit more logical, you wouldn't work yourself into such a fuss. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, submitting to it is dangerous."

"SHERLOCK! If you'd just let me speak, for even a _second_, I'd tell you."

"I was wrong then?"

"YES! Er, no. Well, sort of, you see-" John blushed and stuttered, definitely uncomfortable and unsure how to phrase what he was trying to say.

"John, you are being frustratingly unclear here-"

"It was _you _alright! You made me cry!" The direct route it was then. He'd never really been one for mincing words after all. An apparent added benefit of said directness was the look of shock crossing Sherlock's face and the silence that followed. Ah, finally. Some room to think. He knew it'd be limited so used it to gather his thoughts as best he could, preparing himself for the imminent onslaught of questions.

They never came. Sherlock was looking at him in the most peculiar way and John suddenly felt a hundred times more self-conscious. Then he mentally kicked himself. This was Sherlock. He didn't need to feel weird around him. Sherlock would never take it that way anyways, so he was safe from misunderstandings there. But then why was he being so- Oh. Oops. John cursed himself silently.

"Sorry, Sherlock. That's not what I meant. I'm an idiot, sorry, sorry."

Sherlock just looked at him, eyes closed off and cold. But his body language screamed unsettled, from his tapping fingers all the way up to his shifting gaze. John took a deep breath, feeling horrible and knowing he really couldn't afford to screw this up. (He couldn't handle losing Sherlock, not now. Maybe not ever, but that was a thought he'd prefer not to have to worry about at the moment.)

"Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that, really. Just- Sherlock! Look at me. Look at me, Sherlock; stop being a stubborn prat." John paused, waiting until Sherlock did just that. And oh, if he didn't look so confused and upset, John definitely would've been able to breathe a little easier there. As it was, the look of utter bewilderment and hurt-hurt-hurt-what-did-i-do-this-time made his breath catch in his throat. He quickly cleared it and tried again.

"Sherlock, you didn't do anything wrong. I was crying because I was - I am - grateful. It was just a bit overwhelming- you were right about the home situation, that was scaring the h*** out of me and I really didn't know- still don't actually, now that I think about it-"  
"John-"

"Or if I'll have somewhere to go tonight or if I'm going to be homeless or really what to do with my entire life right now but-"

"JOHN!"

"-the one thing I really didn't mean to offend you. I was just… freaking out. And then you were being so nice and such a perfect friend and happiness was just another proverbial stick that broke the emotional camel's back and-"

"John, seriously. Shut up. You officially stopped making sense several sentences ago and now it's just getting ridiculous. I'm fine, I was not-" Sherlock paused. "I guess I mean… I _am_ not- offended anymore. So you don't have to keep explaining."

John blushed again, feeling stupid and overly sentimental and trying really hard not to care because really, as long as he hadn't lost his friend he shouldn't care about making a fool of himself. (As if logic ever stopped embarrassment. Oh, what wishful thinking _that _was.)

But at least Sherlock was being honest with him. He'd practically admitted to having emotions- to caring- with his last sentence. John smiled. Okay, deep breaths, he told himself. What are you up against? Just an abusive father, a violent, bullying gang, possibly becoming homeless, and keeping your grades up enough to get into a good medical school. Just the usual then impossibilities he survived every day then- he could handle it. No problem. Especially now that he had Sherlock, his friend and his- what could he call it? His person who made him feel alive- no, his person who made him feel life was interesting again- no… his Sherlock Holmes. There. Close enough. He'd just have to be grateful that no one could hear his thought- people would talk.

He must've said that last part out loud because Sherlock grinned back at him.

"People do little else."

As they laughed, John decided that it was all going to be okay. If he knew what was going to happen next, he might've revised that decision a bit… but who knows. Maybe not.

*****A/N:**

_As I previously mentioned, writer's block is soul-sucking. That is my only excuse for this terribly slow update. I'm trying people, really I am. You lovely reviews have really encouraged me and made me keep at it where I might have otherwise given this story up as crappy and impossible to write. So, thanks a lot! I love you guys!_

*****A/N: BLOOPER EDITION**

_Hello one and all, you have been missed. Today, when I was sitting in math class, my chemistry teacher walked in and said, "Who in here is vegetarian?" So I raised my hand. And she logically responded with "Okay, so I can't feed you the crickets for extra credit..." I walk into her class an hour later… only to find a tank of crickets in the back of her room._


	20. Chapter 20

John insisted that he have "The Conversation" (capital letters were totally necessary) alone. And yes, he promised Sherlock he'd text afterwords but Mrs. Hudson didn't get home until eight every night. Sherlock was in his room, sprawled in his usual fashion on his bed, thinking. Waiting.

*Ding*

Sherlock didn't bother moving- it was almost definitely John being nervous and asking to be distracted. John would take his silence as a "Busy" and leave him alone.

*Ding*

Or... not. Curious, that didn't fit within John's predicted behavior patterns. Sherlock tilted his head to glare accusingly at the phone. What was going on? Still, maybe he was saying something pointless and sarcastic like "Thanks for ignoring me" or "Guess that'd be a no then." Yes that'd fit. Now he'd surely be left alo-

*DING*

Sherlock shot up and lunged for his phone. A dreadful thought had just occurred to him- what if John was in trouble? He unlocked his screen and- wait a second. No new messages? But that was definitely his text alert tone... oh. OH! He turned back to the bedside table and scanned the mess. Yes, there it was- he snatched up the pink (forgotten) iPhone and slide the screen open.

~3 New Messages~

*tap*

Fr: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

To: Pink Lady

7:03p.m.

Evening

xxx

~M

scroll

Fr: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

To: Pink Lady

7:10p.m.

Come on Sherly, dear, I know you're there. Answer your phone like a good little teenager...

xxx

~M

scroll

Fr: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

To: Pink Lady

7:11p.m.

Come on, you know you're curious; don't be BORING

xxx

~M

*DING*

Sherlock quickly scrolled to the new message:

scroll

Fr: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

To: Pink Lady

7:11p.m.

Fine, I see you need some motivation- something to get you intrigued. No worries, I know just the thing3

Turn on your telly, news station. Look for your phones namesake~~

xxx

~M

Sherlock raced down the stairs to the parlour where he knew for a fact Molly had smuggled in a small television to watch while she cleaned. He quickly pulled it out from its hiding place beneath the great chair and turned it on, flipping to the correct channel seconds later.

-BREAKING NEWS-

Scrolled at the bottom of the screen on a continuous loop. He fidgeted impatiently waiting for the slow moving letters to move on...

-UNIDENTIFIED GIRL DRESSED IN PINK FOUND DEAD IN FLAT/FOURTH IN A SERIES OF SIMILAR SUICIDES/NOTE LEFT BY VICTIM LEAVES POLICE BAFFLED/IF YOU HAVE ANY INFOR

Sherlock had seen enough. He unlocked the phone again and quickly texted back:

Fr: Pink Lady S.H.

To: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

7:15p.m.

You've got my attention. What do you want?

Fr: Pink Lady S.H.

To: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

7:16p.m.

Do I have a dead woman's phone? No, don't answer that. Obviously not. A replica? Why?

Fr: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

To: S.H.

7:21p.m.

Ah, finally on board are you? Perfect. Now as a nice "get to know you present" I'm sending one of my lackeys to give you something. Be a doll and go meet them.

22 Northumberland Street. Please come:D

xxx

~M

Sherlock grabbed his coat.

*****A/N:**

_20,000 views and 50 FAVORITES! WOOT WOOT! And now for some thank you's to the people who helped me get here:_  
_mylia11: You comment on every chapter immediately after I post it and really reassure my self-conscious oh-my-gosh-did-I-really-just-post-that-crap-everyones-going-to-hate-it thoughts:) Thanks!_  
_TroubledWater: Thank you. No seriously, thanks. I was so happy to get your comment and I'm really glad you like the story and bloopers. _  
_To the Petsmart guest from chapter 19: XD That is too funny. I'm telling my sister about that._  
_To my sister, parents, and Bre&Erika- thanks for your support and for being amazing:)_  
_And to a few other honorable mentions: Anna, SaphireEmblem, Book fan girl, Arty Diane, TYrider, marylouleach, J C Catherine, Lo613, TheHalfPrinny, Becca, josy daky, Sendai, Pandora de Romanus, and Grumpy Toaster: THANK YOU FOR READING, REVIEWING, AND MAKING ME SMILE! You guys are the best, I hope you know. To anyone I didn't mention above, I love you guys too. I'm only specifically thanking those who regularly review and encourage me, but your readership and everything else you do is also the cause of much happiness for me. So thanks to you as well:P_

*****A/N: BLOOPER**  
I just have wacky teachers. Today my bio teacher stopped in the middle of a lecture ( a lecture regarding, metaphorically, 'the rubber duckies floating on the bathtub of life') and said "Wait.. Did I ever tell you guys that you're all donuts and your stomach isn't really on the inside of your body?" She also decided to pretend to be a cell for a while, which resulted in her yelling "I'm sick of being a stem cell, I can't do this anymore! I wanna be a testicle!" Typical day in my life.


	21. Chapter 21

*****A/N: **_Please go to Google Maps and type in 22 Northumberland St. London, U.K. and then use street view if you'd like a better idea of the scene. And yes, there is actually a restaurant there called Sherlock Holmes Restaurant. (and yes I'm dying to eat there) Warning: There is some homophobic language used in this chapter by the bad guys. This in no way reflects the authors opinion and if you think it'll offend you please don't read it. Message me and I'll give you a chapter summary. (though it's not that bad so hopefully you won't find it necessary)_

Sherlock took a cab to Northumberland Avenue and got out in frolnt of a building labeled "Edward VII Rooms." 22 Northumberland Street was accross from it but he'd had the whole cab ride to think and he'd realized that caution might be a good thing to employ about now. John would be dreadfully upset if he got himself killed if he ended up needing a place to stay- No. Sentiment being distracting again. Brush it off. Keep moving.

"OI! HEY, YOU!"

Oh- cabbies appreciate being paid. So much for discreet. He quickly paid the cabby and continued accross the street. Sitting down in a seat with a good view at the cafe there he waited. A waitress approached him immediately and he almost waved her away but for the menu she thrust at him- it had his name on it. Not just scrawled on it- it was as if... well it seemed like- huh. It appeared the restaurant was named after him. He stood, scaring the waitress (irrelevant), and checked the sign. "The Sherlock Holmes Restaurant." Why? Why name a restaurant after him? What was the purpose? He sat back down and pulled out his phone.

Fr: S.H.

To: uNkNoWn NuMbEr

7:49p.m.

I'm here. Where is your "lackey"?

No reply came for twenty minutes and Sherlock was getting twitchy. He'd even been forced to order something (he wasn't sure what it was but when he'd snarled at the timid waitress to just GET HIM SOMETHING if it was that big of a deal, and then thrown and ten pound notes at her, she'd returned with it.) He amused himself briefly as he calculated the probability of it being poisoned (disappointingly low) and took an experimental sip. Ten minutes later he was even more twitchy, an empty Caf-Pow cup in front of him.

Then he saw them. Three teens, big hulking guys dressed entirely in black but for their right shoe laces. Those were blood red and looped in what looked to be a Carrick Bend knot... Definitely suspicious. And.. hold on. There was a fourth! Much smaller and not dressed per uniform. Dark-haired and terrified-looking, he wore street clothing and one of the hulk-boys held him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him along with them. Sherlock dropped a pound on the table and followed as they went down Northumberland Street (at a distance.) It was a dark and quiet night, (for London), so he took great care in following them silently down the dark alleyway. Both sides were blocked off from the moonlight by tall buildings and eerie shadows danced through windows. They reached the intersection with Corner House Street and stopped. It was accross frolm a parking garage and under half a building.

It was also the darkest and most out-of-the-way place in a 3 block radius as far as Sherlock's mental map showed. He crouched low and ducked into the parking garage entrance to watch. What was going on? Who were these guys- ah. Part of the gang, no doubt about it. And the kid? Sherlock squinted at him in the bad lighting and tried to recall details from when he'd been illuminated by the cafe's lights. Not a kid- a highschooler then. With a good deal of personal grooming, underwear showing- ah. Gay. Did the gang have something against homosexuals? Sherlock strained to hear what was being said.

"You dirty little _homo_" ***SLAM*** That'd be a yes then... The teen was pressed against the wall in a painful looking position by an elbow to the throat. At least no weapons had made an appearance yet.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He'd rather not observe this awful display of unintelligence and crude behavior but he was also rather outnumbered. What to do? Suddenly John's face flashed accross his mind and "What to do?" became "What would John do?" The answer was obvious. He'd try to help, no matter what the personal cost. D*** it.

See what sentiment did? Mycroft, Sherlock grudgingly admitted as he strode out of the shadows of the garage toward the teens, was right. Caring was NOT an advantage.

*****A/N: **_Did anyone catch the NCIS reference?_

*****A/N: BLOOPER**

_SO GUYS I MIGHT MAKE A BLOG FYI. IT'LL BE THIS STUFF BUT YOU WON'T GET A BREAK FROM IT. I WILL BE RELENTLESS. LIKE A BLOODHOUND. OR HITLER. I'LL HIT YOU UP WITH THE DEATS IF I FOLLOW THROUGH, ASSUMING YOU CARE._

_ But no time for digression today, nossir. I have an idea to pitch to you guys, assuming your author is cool with me advertising for a friend. Imagine this. A line of toys.. that allow kids to interact and experience, without harm, the dangers of the real world. Lemme give you an example, so I know we're on the same page. A doll, called 'Ken, Your Stalker Friend' or perhaps 'Stan, The Touchy Ice Cream Man'. Interactive, educational, and fun for the whole family! Brilliant, I know._

_Think about it._


End file.
